Urban Legends... rock on!

Just when I thought there was no more, I discover I’m wrong. The stubby tailed cats that one sees roaming the streets of Singapore are not an indigenous species of short tailed cats, but rather, the Governments ‘humane’ way to lessening the nuisance strays might cause to local neighbourhoods. In all its wisdom, Uncle has decided that it will allocate funds for a section of its employees to round up the stray cuts in the city and chop off their tails. Pray tell why? I hear you murmur with some degree of horrified fascination. Well, allegedly this robs them of the ability to balance themselves as they leap up walls, trees, balconies, trash cans and whatnot’s potentially causing untold damage to impressionable young Singaporean minds so it is deemed prudent to rob them of that facility and leave them to loiter in a far neater manner.

My look of horror propels a young Singaporean to launch into an explanation of how this is benevolent as no cats are killed and then can live a regular life. Really? What self respecting cat would want a life where it couldn't swish it's tail in satisfaction, lash it in anger, stiffen it in trepidation and waft it as it poised to strike?! I do not have the heart to rip into the young man's pride at his government's benevolence, and privately mourn for all the cats in this fucking insane city of artifice.

P.S. - he was very proud of the crow killing arm of the govt as if his recounting the traumatic experience of having a sandwich stolen by an avaricious crow in his canteen . i will admit to shock and horror at having my first ever toasted sandwich usurped from its delicately posed position between my hand and lip by a rather large and aggressive Bengali crow, but to kill them for it? Isn't training in appropriate self defence or eating indoors a more logical response? I am aware that as a woman with murder in her heart at the mention of the word pigeon that does seem rather a lily livered stance to take, not to mention hypocritical, but yes, while crows are raucous and ravenous, they really do have much more character and less shit and shedding feathers than the vermin on wings!

Woman vs. White goods - Round 23

Apparently I am destined to have a deeply troubled and mostly tenuous relationship with all the white goods in my domain. The past few days have been a frenzy of washing as I try and catch up with the mountain of laundry that has taken up residence at my abode. This time, I seem to have snaked in on beginners luck and the machine starts up without too much drama, but then keeps me up all night with it's incessant whining.

I know better now so after a hard nights partying, merely strip naked and chuck all sodden clothes in the machine and wisely wait for the dawn. Needless to say, it is not the dawn that gets me up, but a persistent need to pee well past the witching hour and in a fit of misplaced efficiency, I hit the start button (yes, I have figured out which one that now is) and rather smugly head back to bed, ready for a drift in and out of consciousness as the beast does it's best to devour my clothing and keep me more out than in. A day (yes, I do use the term rather loosely)at the beach beckons and I haul myself out of bed and bleary eyed survey the result of turquoise Thai pants and deeply crumpled chocolate top that has the unfortunate habit of slipping off shoulders and is too deep in the back to sustain a bra. The clanking emanating from the machine does make me pause and wonder what on earth has now come lose and whether or not I should be worried or look for the manual. Instead I settle for the iron and am rather pleased with the fetching outcome of my wardrobe, complete with matching footwear and ring.

The white good has subsided and given my last rather tasty experience of pulling out an armload dry but still hot towels, I'm rather looking forward to having these out in the open before I head for the beach. Hmmmm. Perhaps I ought to have waited a tad as the rush of steam accompanies the first armload. Shit! Did I accidentally change the drying setting? My momentary alarm is assauged as I realise it's the steam and the clothes just need to be laid out for a bit before they can be put away. As I head back for my second armful, I'm struck by the painful knowledge of what caused the clanking towards the end of the wash. It's a pitiful sight, to see poor Poddy II laying there like an abused child, headphones mangled with last nights top. I reach for it only to let go in a yelp as the metal scorches my fingers. This does not bode well. I disengage the headphones and gingerly (and yes, guiltily) eye the damage caused. Hello. The white good has managed to do to Poddy II what it does to fabric. Shrink it!! How is this possible?? Most of Poddy II looks respectable enough for a prospective bride's photo, but the bottom bit housing the controls has definitely shrunk! I'm befuddled and concerned. Naturally, it was only last evening on my way to undefined revelry that the battery died, so now I have no way of knowing if Poddy II is really dead or just playing hard to get.

I get the charger from upstairs and hold my breath as I plunge it into Poddy II. Nothing. Blink. Blink. Blink. The orange light is there... could it be alive? I decide to leave it there and embark on my very late luncheon adventure at the Arts and Science museum (an entirely different matter deserving of it's own post) prelude to the beach. Late evening sees us munching on fries and a good 12 minutes trying to untangle wires that now resemble over zealously cooked Maggi noodles. It's more out of curiosity than expectation that I slot it in and stick the buds into my ears, as I grapple with the shrunken Poddy II part to start her off. The sound of the Dixie Chics in my ears makes me yelp with excitement... IT LEEEEVES!!!! I'll be damned! A full wash and dry cycle and the damn thing is still playing and not just Poddy II but those friggin' useless earphones as well. I feel the urge to bow to Apple, but restrain myself as I realise the shrunken bit of plastic really should've been heat resistant like the rest of Poddy II for me to do that, as my attempt to switch it on and off meant prising one edge off which resulted in the whole thing coming loose and the switch for the on and off falling off! Hmmmm....

Determination and a finger sticking on it works and I'm rewarded with the sounds of warbling women but clearly, any ambition Poddy II might have had of being mobile is now a distant dream. I contemplate cello tape but while that may keep the body parts of the rotating drum survivor in one piece, it doesn't let me switch it on or off, and engaging with Poddy II to execute that piece of skulduggery is liable to have a situation where the button itself falls off. Catch 22. I could either then just leave it on all the time and cello tape it into place and then just recharge like it was going out of style. Or, Poddy II is now under curfew for life... decisions, decisions... I shall leave this one for another day.

Woman - 0.62743 vs. White goods - 0.72363

The Firm

It's a very short week in the UK next week, what with Easter Monday and the Royal Wedding. A national holiday, I mean really??! Sanjeev Bhaskar was right, the Queen is Indian!! My abstract wondering about what such a lovely girl like Kate sees in Willie is met with a concerto of raised eyebrows against a 'oh c'mon' chorus. Um, no really. Why? Why would you choose to live your life in a fishbowl? They're groomed for it. Erm, it's still a choice. Everything you do, everything you say, nothing is sacred anymore when you're out in public. What kind of a life is that? Guess it must be true lou! Why else would you marry a young man with a receeding hairline and the personality of wet pasta and join a firm that seems spend the better part of its life as hamster cage lining??

Jealousy

The realisation sinks in and suddenly everything makes sense. All the other explanations I was cataloguing are irrelevant. It's the whole who's the coolest of them all that's doing this. It makes you smile, that sudden flash of insight. The word is so commonly used to define an uni dimensional emotion because it's probably the most common and definitely the most televised, but there are so many facets to it. Jealousy lives everywhere and sometimes makes the oddest appearance. Usually one hopes for a brief period before you find perspective again and you let go of it with a rueful smile. Who'd have thunk it.

Whoodunit

I'm stymied. Just earlier this evening, I blithely told a prospective buyer that it's really noisy here much to the new brokers annoyance. His less than gracious advice that I tell the landlord I want to break the lease coz he can get more money fails for the moment.

As my houseguests leave, (amazing what a lanky 15 year old can do to you on the mushiness scale as they say they'll miss you and hope you'll come with them or let them stay forever between a full on squashed body hug), I decide the week that was, has won and I'm more othan ready to surrender my decadent lifestyle of an immaculate jet setting bachelorette boss lady the coolest woman on the planet image and elected to moulder in bed instead of shaking a leg (and then some). Naturally, the decibels crank up in anticipation of the long weekend, but an unexpected and discorant whine makes me pause in my perusal of good looking men. That sounded remarkably like an aircraft. Well, at the very least like a genuine flight simulator. Did they forget to oil the bungee? The strange noise continues unabashed and I debate whether it's worth my while to get out of bed, thunk my way downstairs and investigate the matter. Broker taking revenge? The whole get out of plan makes me wonder the exercise will yield. Knowledge of a new form of entertainment at Clarke Quay? Annoyance? Aggravation? A rude call to the broker taking him up on his offer? Is this an Easter weekend thing perhaps? I content myself with muttering evil things about the new broker and thinking deeply voodoo thoughts. The noise stops. I gracefully refrain from gloating but just as i get used to the discordant notes of the band downstairs, it starts up again like an agitated jet engine trying to impress a new date. WTF?!

A wee little voice in the distant reaches of my brain tries to make itself noticed.... 'washing machine' it whispers. Oh. Right. I did hit a few buttons on that creature did I not? The first time I've heard it in action and apparently it's an A380 cleverly in disguise as a maudlin white good. Clearly, tossing in an armload of towels at 11 pm isn't the right strategy when your bed is directly above the said implement of domesticity, particularly in a studio flat with no doors apart from the one barring random strangers that may meander in. You live and you learn. Or not as the case may be. Uh oh, sounds like its ready for take off...... tighten seat belts and hope that it does not explode. Hmmmm, it really is just like flying on the upper deck!

You know it's been a REALLY bad week when you're too tired to go dancing or have sex :(

Chatus Interruptus

I'm still chortling over my cleverness as Darius and I zing witticisms and appalling unintended puns about the dead and how many bar codes to a dead body and whether one should program in how many visitors to the site (of course no pun intended!!). How cool is to be writing software for a funeral home? Our pithy exchange blips when msn offers up a "you and Darius both have web cams so you can see each other". Blind panic propels my hand over my boobs even as I contemplate the various states of undress Darius has already seen me in, while my blood boils at this gross invasion of privacy! Since when does a woman have to be defensive about her choice of non attire when in bed exchanging silliness with an old buddy? And what is this absurd desire to keep wanting to see what's on the other end?? Have we lost complete sight of civilisation??!! How did this come to pass? (naturally, no pun intended this time either). I crack myself up... at least don't have to wonder about whoodunit.

AWAS

If sun burnt boobs are a sign of a good weekend, then I must have had a spectacular one! Emerald green water, bright blue sky, lush palm fringed sand, margaritas, martini biancos, jenga, taboo, multi-lingual name, place, animal, thing, scones with cream and jam, brownies, frisbee in the water, basketball, boogie boards, feeding the fish in guise of catching them, mosquito nets, trashy magazines, 50 spf sunblock, snorkeling, underage blond boys, pretend F1 speed boat rides.... it's so hard to do nothing! Sibu Island in Malaysia is the perfect place to practice this fine art....

Lunch

Unlike Europe, client entertainment is de rigeur this part of the world, and I find myself off to a client lunch after a quick visit to their offices, which overlook the Bird’s Nest stadium and Water Cube at the Olympic Village. Naturally, the block of buildings, spearheaded by the tall office building before slanting to three residential towers and a up flip to a hotel is meant to resemble a dragon. As we head towards lunch, it becomes abundantly clear that (a) the philosophy imbued in the masses that ride the subway is a mere cultural expression of the thou shalt not wait ethos and (b) the Chinese do not give a flying flip about lift manufacturers guidelines on the number of people allowed. We get into a lift that is already filled to capacity and make three further stops along the way, as a general shuffle of angling bodies slightly yields room for another seven people (admittedly tiny, but hey!) and you wonder if any of these lifts will actually belch out an overload (something I’ve seen happen with great abandonment in Singapore). Andy decides we should experience cuisine from his hometown which lies in Wuhan province and lunch turns out to be an experience completely different to anything else ‘Chinese’ I’ve eaten in all these years. An unexpected and most surprising offering turns out to be a decadently luxurious soup that’s oddly comforting. An unusual mix between silky, lush pork fat imbibed broth and the stolid comfort of starchy lotus root (with trailing, sticky strands that brought back to mind a graphically pornographic description someone once made). How they eat the way they do and go back to work (thankfully, as a race, the Chinese are diverse and share the skinny bitches with regular people) . Delicious fish in gravy (enough to serve 6), greens from the province gently steamed to retain crunch, rice, a rather odd concoction of spring onion type greens and a surprisingly bland meat product, the lush soup, duck with some kind of winter melon/squash that merrily cooked on a flame as we went through the rest of the meal. Nothing like a business lunch to get the eyelids drooping…. Apart from the culinary, I also discover that while China does have amendments to its 1 Child Policy, it’s not easy for couples to have families. Kat is moving to Shenzen to work before giving birth to her baby in Hong Kong not because as I had naively assumed, that she has family there, but because if she were to stay in Beijing and have her second baby, they would be fined ¥ 300,000 for breaking the one child policy! However, it is apparently acceptable, to go off and have your baby elsewhere and then come back to China. So apart from the nuisance value, you could spend a third of the fine living elsewhere and then come home with a jubilant defiance of the government’s policy. Couples who are single offspring themselves have the right to a second baby, but only if there is a five year gap between the children and there might even be some age restrictions (apart from the obvious of the unlikelihood of having a second if you’re first only deigns to show up when you’re 40!). It feels so bizarre not to have the right to choose something as fundamental as how many babies you will or won’t have (and to think I’d gone into rant mode without this dazzling piece of knowledge!) and even if you are ‘eligible’, to have the Government stipulate when! Like India, the baseline is formidable so while it’s kinda understandable. This place is crazy, and I love it!

Forbidden City

After that rant out of nowhere my seemingly frayed nerve were calmed by a verrrry soothing massage and today was the adventure of the subway (they definitely have more junta than we do!!) which turned out to be very easy to negotiate (apart from dealing with the seething masses that just keep pouring into the compartment despite being filled to capacity, utterly oblivious to those wanting to get off the train. I get out at Tiananmen Square (East) and am a tad disappointed at how benign it looks. A bit silly to expect student protesters being mowed down by tanks, but aside from being massive (but then, Beijing is a MASSIVE city), there’s little to commend itself to the tourist. The Forbidden City on the other hand…. It takes me quite a while to realize, that it’s not free entrance, but rather I’m only crossing the gates preceding the Forbidden City from Tiananmen Square. It’s full of street vendors hawking their wares and I get snared by a young girl, an artist who insists she wants foreigners to see her work and won’t let me go. I have no need or desire for yet another Chinese painting, but sap that I am, am unable to walk away from the exhibition without a plastic bag holding one of her paintings. She’s from the Hunan province (and prefers it there) and is in Beijing for a month for this exhibition and desperately wants to show other people in other parts of the world her works. The walls remind me of offerings outside the Met in NY and Chinatown there. All originals – so much talent, but so few that make it really big. Like everything else, art is an industry as well. I loiter around the front courtyards taking in the crowds and the festive ambiance breaking into hapless giggles at the sight of combat wear, gun toting toy soldiers crawling on their forearms and knees with a Chinese flag merrily stashed between their weapon arm. The dolls are about 8-10 inches long, and advance in a not very stealthy but entirely convincing crawl brandishing their weapons, ready to take down any dissident tourist. I’m spellbound and the lady tries her best to sell me a regiment. I’m severely tempted, but six years in London and random Germanic associations make me question the wisdom of the toy even as I catalogue nieces /nephews and godchildren (and some contemporaries) to pander to. Sadly, my cash position is perilous and I decide to pay for the entrance ticket instead. My progress is poor and this time, I’m captivated by the sight of little plastic bags, well and truly sealed that seemed to have little fishies in them. My investigative peer reveals that they are not ornamental plastic fish as I thought, but real live ones, seemingly hermetically sealed with some dots of stuff in these plastic pouches with different coloured liquid. How strange. Apparently, these are fighter fish, and one is the best number to keep the harmony. Wonder what mating season looks like! Luckily, no other stall distracts me and I manage to acquire entry through the gates into what was once the Imperial capital of the Qing and Ming dynasties. A city within a city. I feel like I’ve landed on the sets of Shanghai Noon and almost expect to have Jackie Chan leaping out with great enthusiasm. Instead, I try a few fancy maneuvers so as not to trample on any stray children in my line of trajectory. There is always something magical about walking on the same roads and past the same things that a civilization did hundreds of years ago and this is no different. Trying to imagine what life would have been like in the royal confines. The Imperial gardens are ornamental and seem somehow small compared to what one expects of royalty. The consorts chambers have furniture displayed and for some reason this attracts all the shutterbugs. The streets are punctured by large copper vats that were used to firefight – a rather common phenomenon given how carefully organised this was, but still not good enough to prevent destruction through fire in the days of yore. It’s another beautiful day, and the sun glitters on the rooftops, that were yellow when I came in, but now gleam like they are plated with gold leaf, reflecting the sunlight like water. Time goes by quicker than expected (my earlier loitering could have some impact on this), and I find myself rushing back down the other side, before realizing that I’d manage to lose myself in the city and re-orienting myself in the right direction. Team dinner that can’t wait, so I had to forgo the not so little swarming, belly crawling army. Dinner is Sichuan and spicy and while they courteously offer me the menu, I abdicate (but not before I do a quick reconnaissance of the pictures and my fancy is piqued by cold donkey meat and my heart melts at the sight of seahorses in their miniature perfection on the menu) and only express my ethical aversion to anything shark fin related. Duly noted, and the food comes flying in…. the first dish to arrive is what looks like rolled green leaves with a peanutty dipping sauce. It’s crunchy, and in itself, not very flavourful, but with the sauce, turns into a crisp, refreshing bite. Soon, the table is laden - original Kung Pao chicken, which is completely different, spicy but with a compellingly fragrant flavor, even spicier tofu (I fail to understand why no one else makes tofu like this – it’s silky, delicate and most pleasing to the palate unlike your average tofu which I will avoid like the plague) that takes all of my skills to confine myself to the tofu without being annihilated by the deadly sauce. Then, the waitress brings a large glass bowl with brown liquid. I’m thinking this looks like rather a bland stock and then to my shock, she ladles in some strips of raw meat and it bubbles ferociously! That is a bowl of hot oil! The meat is dipped in taken out and then rest of the vegetables. But contrary to my expectations, and unlike a fondue, they then put everything back in that huge bowl of oil, which along with your edibles has a bunch of hot stones that keep the dish hot…. Its Chinese name is a far more elegant rendition of flowing river with boiling beef. I’m a tad appalled at having to fish my food out of a vat of oil, but gamely do so and it’s absolutely delicious! The beef, mushroom and sundry other veggies are done perfectly and bursting with flavor. While I’m distracted by this, more food has arrived at the table, rice, chicken broth soup with unnamed bits of what I would guess to be interiors of some animal (specked and honeycombed like the inside of an intestine methinks) that are supple and deliciously crunchy and a sweet sago something or the other soupy endeavour (which I would be more than happy to sacrifice). As we forage through our meal, the ladle brings up more stones than meat and veg and I’m laughingly appalled once again to be eating straight out of the boiling oil. “It’s just like French Fries”, Rayman consoles me, “Just manual draining”. Technically speaking, the boy is right, but now I start to wonder what they do with the oil once we’re through with it and a lively debate ensues. One presumes that an establishment of this magnitude tosses it but I insist that this is what has been used to cook the rest of our meal. Yep, I am a very popular boss (and this is before I pick up the tab!)

Welcome to China

There are clearly more people in China than in India and I seem to be spending the day with most of them at the Summer Palace in Beijing. I can only chuckle under my breath as the masses throng all around, and the next time a Chinese woman tells me it’s going to be very crowded, I’m won’t be so blasé about it. I also now understand why she sent the car for me at 7 am this morning…. My resentment now somewhat abated. When we’d reached the Great Wall at Mutianyu, we sailed into the parking lot and I huffed and puffed my way to the cable cars, wisely assessing the height of the mountain ahead of me and cannily making the judgment call that I came here to go on the wall, and not try and kill myself merely attempting to get to it. The cable car ride is spectacular and offers me a birds eye view of the crazy wall, yet doesn’t prepare me for what I see when I go skip off. Not a great fan of man made items, watching this massive wall snake it’s way up and down the hills is quite surreal. Having the sun shine brightly taking the chill away makes it magnificent. This section has been restored (courtesy Henkel), and therefore is no longer the real thing, but my God, if it doesn’t make you inhale a deep breath as you long one way and another and you just see it reach endlessly. Wikipedia told me this was the less crowded section of the wall as the climb was steeper. Sadly, no one else seems to have read that as I struggled to find a quiet spot for a global moment. I had a client call at 10 am, and scampered down to the least crowded spot I found, making myself cozy in the shade of the wall, I contemplate being an Indian on the Great Wall, nibbling on a delectably flaky croissant, dialing into Singapore for a call with an Aussie. Call me a nerd, but just how cool is that?? I wonder if it scrambled the satellites of the CIA, NCIS, KGB, RSVP, TWBA, AIG and Red Army. I did contemplate walking the stretch all the way down to the next set of cable cars, but the crowds are swelling – these Chinese are hardy. They’ve got their young, their decrepit, and even their breastfeeding all on that wall, wheezing, huffing and puffing ,but all on the ruddy wall. I give up the battle and gasp my way back up to whence I came for an easier ride down the mountain. I was told it would be a ‘phaa’ experience, but with the qualification that since I wasn’t paying for the trip I’d love it…. not sure how true that is, but it really is quite an incredible sight and to think of it that many dynasties ago, wrapping itself to the defense of the realm is quite spectacular. Today was the perfect day, but oddly, I wish I was here in the snow. Somehow, that would have been more poignant. To think of all those souls that might have crossed it when they had to, and not when the snacks were up for grabs. It would have also been a more intense experience with hardly any people on it as you struggle with nature despite man’s insistence. Still, the sun winking of the far set of cable cars is a funky sight and I’m glad of the early start (despite feeling like stale toast), as the queue to the parking lot snakes several miles down as we leave for the Summer Palace. The souvenir sellers are at it full tilt (including very vociferous enforcement of a no photographing the dromedary policy! Pity- said creature was really adorable. Not sure what it is about them, but I find camels, especially the furry double humped varieties irresistible). Naturally, we’re unable to get into the parking lot of the Summer Palace, and just stop the car for me to get to the entrance by feet. The driver insists on accompanying me and as he points to the back of the ticket illustrating where he’ll pick me up, I being to comprehend. However, I’m hungry and decide to investigate the wares on the street side. My confusion clears as I realize the McDonald’s umbrellas are mere brand stamps and have nothing to do with the funky coloured ices and fruits on offer. I shy away from the sugar, and instead focus my energies on a man grilling meat on long skewers. They smell heavenly and I decide not to ask what animal it might be and just point hungrily. 10 RMB later, and a sprinkle of chili powder leaves me brandishing two speared sticks. I bite into it and gasp both with the heat and the juiciness. It’s gorgeous! I’m lined up against a railing with a bunch of other locals intently gnawing on our sticks. They very blithely chuck their remains on to the grass on the other side, and while I balk at that, I decide to adhere to the when in Rome model and nonchalantly toss mine over the side as well. My adventures in the summer palace are confined as a large part is under renovation, and well, I’m not that keen on palaces, but gamely meander along, stopping to admire the garden of virtue and harmony (no, I do not know why virtue should be harmonious) and the largest single rock for an ornamental garden before stumbling onto the lake and I do mean quite literally stumble as I get washed away with the massive crowds of people that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. I’m an Indian. I live in Bombay. Six million commuters use the local trains. I’ve been at Churchgate during rush hour. Nothing prepares me for this…. Yep. They do have more people than we do. All of them desiring to move to the next point at the same time without the patience to wait for anyone else. I can’t remember if I’ve ever taken photos of crowds before, just because I was taken aback by the sight of one, but I have now. It’s mayhem, and I feel claustrophobic. They look happy, enjoying their holiday. Suddenly, Bombay feels like a big, ole spacious city and the couples on Marine Drive are lucky to have such a respectable distance between them. The lake is littered with little boats, and I gingerly step across merry Chinese negotiating my speed, trajectory and the lake right next to me. The water bounces back the bright light, glittering wickedly like malignant silver and the pagoda and palace are a pale shadowy silhouette in the distance, unable to compete. The bridge to the island is spiked with bodies crossing over, even as large bird like kites soar overhead. It’s happy, free and insane. I can’t help but smile the entire walk down doing my best to avoid happy snappers, wheelchairs and running babies with icky fingers. I’m one of a few foreigners, but we’re such a negligible number, we might as well have been Chinese. I have no idea why everyone would want to head to the same place on their holiday, to be cheek and jowl with your fellow countrymen, but for some reason, they not only do, they seem to have a blast doing it. So Happy Qingming Jie Beijing.

Too much nice weekend

3 bottles of wine, pork ribs, dim sums, mousse cakes, pate and cheese with crackers, cackling women, plans, frustrations, silliness in abundance. A too much nice Friday night that segues into a gourmet three course lunch, Darjeeling tea, impeccable service (53 @ 53 Armenian St) which manages to last long enough to blend into frozen margaritas at Boat Quay as a set up for a lesson in cricket for the American. We wend our way down to Robertson Quay where the Indians have laid siege to Boomerang. War paint and cries of “India Jeetega!” rend the air and the mood is more than set as the alcohol keeps flowing. The mood drops to a shocked silence as we’re 31 for 2, and all the American’s efforts to cheer us and tell us the rest of the team are there to get more ‘points’ leave us unimpressed. Slowly steadily, our collective hope and will seem to get the Indian batting order to a semblance of a battle to be had, and the cosmic realignment is now back in balance. I have to choose between friends in apparent need and a country in need and stay rooted to my seat despite the hazing in the background (an entirely unfulfilling debate about how old orange shirt was – and if you saw him, you’d be wondering why anyone of any age would (a) wear that colour (b) pick a size that emphasises love handles and prosperous paunch (c) buy a t-shirt that’s so long (d) have the collar standing up). During the match, I’m informed that while I’m not attracting any male attention compared to resident slut with suBtlety, I’ve caught the eye of there women. A visit the ladies brings on male attention (I’m Mark, this is Mike and someone else and we own the place…. Yay?), and a lost wicket and I’m promise not to go ever again. The countdown begins and the tension is palpable. Die hards leave so as not to jinx the team, and I haven’t paced with this much stress since Federer lost the last Wimbledon to Nadal. 1983 was the last time I seriously followed the game and that was the last time we’d watched. Dhoni has his head down and keeps plugging away to our yelled at encouragement. “Hum hoongey kaaamiiiiyaaaab” fills the bar along with some rather risky, “Lanka ko jala!”. Even some ruder sentiments of “chut bhi liye aur maza bhi nahi aaya”. Nails get bitten, high fives and chest thumps shared as do fervent hugs, funky dance steps, and general shouts of Sachin and India fill the air. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife and no one’s moving from their spot – any spectator knows that would just bring bad karma. Goldilocks still has a two more overs, but then we mutter to keep it steady and calm, and then it’s so doable. Within our grasp, you can feel the thundering of collective hearts as Dhoni pulls back and yanks it, the cries of panic mingled jubilation as we watch it soar, and keep soaring as it crosses the boundary and the world explodes into craziness. Screaming bodies hurl into each other hugging, exulting, arms pumped up in victory, testosterone fills the air as everyone goes beserk. Apparently, it’s been 28 years since we last one. 28 fucking years. There are people watching with us who weren’t even born when that happened! We’ve won!! INDIA JEET GAYA! Frantic phone calls to share the joy, more group hugs, high fives and victory dances. It’s time to celebrate and we take the party to Clarke Quay and the only place any self respecting Indian can go – to the Rupee Room where Bollywood awaits. Of course it waits a little longer as we ceetee and cheer our way through the presentations, the cacophony making Aashish text me saying you’re phone called mine (D-uh!). The Rupee Room doesn’t care if you’re in shorts and chappals. India won, we can wear anything today, and we show the white boys how it’s done. A few drinks and much sweat later, the club is heaving, so we leave and join the street party instead, full on with a bunch of boys absent for our last win as they do a conga line around the fountain interspersed with respect to Sachin, Dhoni and the incessant refrain of India Jeet Gaya amidst ceetes, screams, vuvus and dhols. The party spills on to the bridge and I’m hauled up to dance along the barriers with the rest of the crazy desis. Eventually, the poor dhol player despite a virtual red bull intravenous drip eventually loses his voice and arm completely and it’s time to meander home victorious. The conquering army still unwilling to let go, but those whose second world cup this is, thinking 5 am is about time to leave especially when flying out the same day… Still, the smug smile stays while I’m still in bed, and splits into a full on grin as I can hear India Jeet Gaya waft up through my window. Damn Straight - we ARE the Champions!! Weeeee are the Champions….. weee ARE the CHAMPIONS!! Of the WORLD :D:D:D