The Good Side of Donald Trump

Brash, arrogant, selfish, self-centred, boorish, loutish, cruel, unreasonable, difficult, impossible, inconsiderate, ungrateful, petty, petulant, sulking, crass, insensitive, irrational, contentious, argumentative, aggravating, insulting, crazy, wicked and mad. – Paul Collar

Donald Trump, in the past twelve months, has been labelled a sexual predator, evil, fascist, bully, pervert, demagogue, shameless liar, racist pig, misogynist. And yet next week the man will occupy the mightiest political position on this planet. With record 17 candidates in the Republican primaries, Trump’s mathematical chance of becoming a president was less than 3%. And yet he beat his opponents, overcame the global media assault, survived leaked tapes and proved poll numbers wrong. Can anyone grab the world’s top job without having some positive qualities? What can we learn from Donald Trump?

Independent: Trump is faithless as far as political affiliation goes. As recently as between 2001-2008, he was a Democrat. In essence, he is an Independent who won on a Republican ticket.

The modern world (particularly social media) suffers from the halo effect (if I like someone, I like everything that person says or does) and the Devil effect, which is the reverse. Each of us is expected to join a camp, take a stance and bash the opposite camp. In political terms, such biases rob our independence. For example, in the USA, a Republican candidate is expected not only to reduce taxes but also to support guns, and oppose gay marriage and abortion. The conservative camp has defined this manifesto, and if you wish to belong to that camp, you must tick the entire checklist.

Trump is an exception. He has no party and no position. In future, if he wants, he could reduce taxes and support abortion at the same time.

This independence is worth emulating if we wish to be objective analysts, to get rid of our halo effect, to not belong to any camp but judge actions on individual merit. Right actions of people we hate can also be right.

The finisher: During a TV interview (after Trump had won the Republican nomination), the anchor asked: ‘Mr Trump, by becoming the candidate for the presidential election, you have already achieved so much. Whether you win the final election or not, you can always look back with pride at your incredible performance.’

Trump looked at her with disdain.

‘No, no.’ he yelled. ‘If I don’t become the president, all this has no meaning. It’s a complete waste, a ZERO achievement.’

His was a strong and sincere feeling. If you ask a woman, who has delivered a stillborn baby, her experience of pregnancy, she will be equally annoyed. The aim of the nine-month pregnancy is to deliver a healthy, bouncy baby. A pregnancy that has produced a dead baby is utterly meaningless.

Whatever is not a 100% success is a 100% failure. Trump is a fanatically success-driven guy. Obama said “we can”, Trump says ‘I will”. Trump’s extraordinary desire to win and his binary focus can be important in our lives.

Over the last couple of years, I started and abandoned three unfinished books, including one novel. Should I be proud of this? Did the process of writing matter as much as the result? Of course not. Inspired by Trump, I have decided not to leave any book unfinished in future. Self-doubt and a high sense of standard made me discard those projects. Trump has shown that with supreme willpower and single-minded focus on results, anything is possible. If Trump can win the US presidential election, surely my books can see the light of day.

No mask, no pretence: Not only the US presidents, each of us wears a civil mask. Gossip is proof that we say one thing in a person’s absence and quite another when he is around.

One of my friends, let me call her Jennifer, has faced a dilemma for quite some time. On her Facebook wall, her old-time friend Maggie quite vehemently supports Brexit, annexation of Crimea, is anti-gay, says climate change is a hoax, and believes 9/11 was a conspiracy theory and loves both Farage and Putin. Jennifer can’t let Maggie have the last word, so their FB correspondence is long, bitter and a source of entertainment for the rest of the FB crowd. Over the years, Jennifer has felt increasingly uncomfortable; she knew little of Maggie’s fascist leanings in their youth. Whenever we talk, Jennifer complains about how intolerable Maggie has become. But she can’t unfriend or block Maggie on Facebook. Because that may hurt Maggie’s feelings.

Or take an example from my own life. Occasionally, on Sundays, I come across S.K. (30 years old) who is also a runner like me. Depending on the latest running book he is reading, he may be in running shoes, Vibram, or sandals. Sometimes even barefoot. Whenever we meet, he comments on my running posture, my stretching, frequency (five times a week is too much, you are burning yourself), and speed (without interval training, your timing won’t improve).

He finishes every marathon race at least twenty five minutes later than I do. 

When he is giving me the unsolicited advice, my mind is saying: ‘S.K., what an idiot you are! A theoretical idiot. I ran the first time, when you were not even born. You are injury prone with all your experiments. How dare you criticize me, when you take a half hour longer?’

However, while I mentally say all this, I am politely smiling and pretending to absorb all the tips S.K. is giving me. This is my mask, because of my upbringing, because I am decent, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Both Jennifer and I need to learn from Trump. Trump says what he thinks at that moment. He can call anyone nasty with millions watching him. He can antagonize, cut off anybody from his life. When a conscientious person cares about the feelings of some idiots, he is often hurting himself in the process. Jennifer should remove Maggie from her FB friends, and I should tell S.K. to go to hell with his advice. Now with social media and smart phones, you can’t easily avoid unwanted people. The remedy is to follow Trump and tell them in their face what you think of them.

  

Idiot Savant: A person who is in general mentally defective but displays unusual aptitude or brilliance in some special field. (Webster dictionary) 

And now a word about why Trump behaves the way he does, and why you and I may not be able to follow his behavior, even when inspired.

It’s time for me to apologise for the deception carried out at the start of this article. Paul Collar, more than forty years ago, was talking about Bobby Fischer, and not Donald Trump. I had used this quote in my Fischer obituary. (Open diary week 5: 2008)

The point is how surprisingly similar Fischer and Trump are in many respects. Both of them were born in the 1940s, of German ancestry and surnames, and grew up in adjoining NY boroughs (Fischer in Brooklyn, Trump in Queens). Both undoubtedly suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) characterized by excessive and vocal self-love and little or no feelings for others.

I have studied Bobby Fischer’s life far more than Trump’s. Fischer certainly qualified as an Idiot Savant, a genius in chess and completely socially inept. Those who considered themselves close to Fischer were finally sick of his paranoia and insults, and left him. Fischer, like Trump, said whatever was on his mind.

If these parallels are correct, I am convinced Trump is not a fascist, evil or a liar as is generally imagined. Doesn’t mean he is good-natured or cultured. He, like Fischer, is born with defective wiring in the brain. Trump may be absolutely sincere about whatever he says at that particular time. No shrewd or premeditated political strategy or psychological warfare is behind it. His actions perceived as cunning, or hypocritical may not be deliberate.

Fischer knew he would become the world champion one day, and Trump knew he would become the USA president one day. Both stupendous achievements of mentally defective personalities. They were lucky to be born with the nerve of self-doubt missing.

Trump is not a loner like Fischer, his is a colourful personality, he has a large family. Fischer retired at 30, and Trump is assuming office at 70. Trump calls himself a master dealmaker and Fischer initially got whatever he wanted by his willingness to self-destruct. Fischer never played any serious chess after winning the World crown, and went into oblivion. As a World champion, his narcissism and paranoia grew further, his demands became excessively unreasonable. His admirers were fed up. The title he could have kept for two decades was lost with no further play.

Donald Trump is in a far worse position. He needs to handle not pieces on the board, but real people and countries. Would President Trump also become more narcissistic, and disappear before finishing his term?

While it will be hugely entertaining to see Trump in power for four years, my prediction is a new US president will take charge much before the 2020 election. The Trump Reality Show cannot last for four years.

Ravi 

Narendra Modi: the fallen hero

I was an unwavering Narendra Modi fan – until 4 September 2016.

Unlike most Indian PMs before him, Modi is a self-made man, going all the way from serving tea on railway stations to sharing tea with Obama in the White house; unmarried, devoted to work; personally non-corrupt, his old mother still lives in a one-room flat; a top class orator with a decent dress sense; possesses a superhuman stamina, jetlag immune and can speak in stadiums without eating anything; has a lengthy experience of managing a major Indian state; is mentally tough and must be lucky to have low oil prices since the start of his tenure.

What changed on 4 September 2016? Modi’s government bid good bye to Raghuram Rajan, the governor of the Reserve Bank of India. There is a misconception that Rajan needed to be replaced as his term had ended.

First of all, there is no prescribed limit anywhere on how long a central bank chief may serve. Alan Greenspan, the name familiar to people my age, was appointed by Reagan in 1987 as the Chairman of the Federal Reserve (RBI Governor’s USA equivalent), and occupied that position for almost twenty years, under Red and Blue presidents. If you have an exceptional guy as a central banker, you keep him for as long as you can.

Secondly, four governors before Rajan- C. Rangranjan (1992-1997), Bimal Jalan (1997-2003), Y.V.Reddy (2003-2008) and D. Subbarao (2008-2013) had all enjoyed five year terms. Why did Rajan not get at least five years?

Raghuram Rajan, in my view, was one of the best RBI governors, competent, articulate, and professional. His most important quality was his independence. PhDs from US Universities can be found by the hundreds, but his independence mattered the most. He worked without fear or favour. To disagree with the boss, to say NO to the boss is a qualification rarer than a PhD. A fair boss retains such people around. Narendra Modi didn’t.

The demonetization that followed two months later was possibly connected to this event. Making 86% of the legal tender illegal in a matter of hours was something Rajan would have never allowed to happen.

When an economist refused to play politics, a politician decided to play economics.

*****

One fundamental principle of justice was violated in the demonetization plan. We are familiar with the famous saying by Sir William Blackstone, an English judge: "It is better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer". This principle known as the Blackstone ratio remains the backbone of criminal justice.

The numbers of black money hoarders, counterfeiters was minuscule in percentage terms. The new Modi ratio said: Let 99% of the population suffer, but I’ll attack the 1% with black money.  Suffering is not measured by deaths alone; it’s about sweating in queues, losing your daily wages, inability to buy seeds before a planting season, non-moveable trucks, reduced consumption, empty shopping malls, cancelled weddings and dysfunctional ATMs. The galloping Indian GDP was made to trot by a single action.

If cashless economy was a goal as was projected subsequently, notes could have been withdrawn with a much longer notice - six months or a year. The sudden note ban is classified as shock therapy in economics. Bolivia in 1985 and Poland in 1989 used it to smother hyperinflation. Both in psychiatry and economics, shock therapy is applied in extreme circumstances: when the patient is not responding to medicines or other treatment.

By his action, Narendra Modi announced to the world that India, the country he was governing, was ill enough to warrant shock therapy. He was like a father with no knowledge of medicine, applying electric shocks to treat the illness of his own child.

Even ill-conceived plans can sometimes be well executed. However, the following weeks showed that planning was haphazard. The RBI and government issuing daily circulars were in a crisis management mode. In case of earthquakes, hurricanes or floods, daily corrective actions are necessary. These are unforeseen natural crises. However, when a daily corrective action and a weekly changing narrative are needed for an action you yourself have initiated, it is evidence of a manufactured crisis. If you didn’t have enough time to plan why did you not postpone the plan? Using 1.3 billion Indians as guinea pigs in a financial experiment was reckless, even dangerous. If a single man, not educated in economics, could impose the decision without any checks or balances, that is immensely worrying.

The figures available till date show the concept was a failure, the inconvenience and suffering continue beyond the promised fifty days, economic growth is likely to be affected. As if this was not enough, Modi’s luck is running out as well. The oil prices are going up.

The Indian tax net is small (agriculture is excluded, income and gains from selling your agricultural land is tax-free). That net needs to be widened instead of dreaming of a cashless India to improve tax revenues. A country that has 17% smart phones, 34% access to (slow) internet, 78% access to (frequently interrupted) electric power, and 67% of population that has not passed the 5^th grade, why and how would you convert it into a cashless society?

In chess, any piece pushed forward can be brought back. However, a pawn that is pushed ahead can never go back. Pawn moves, being irreversible, are the most committing moves. Because of the irreversibility, a flawed pawn move can cost the player a game. Modi has committed two irreversible moves: removal of Rajan and demonetization. They could cost him the game.

Ravi

Week 32 (2010) Moscow: Apocalypse now

On Saturday, 7 August, my Emirates flight from Dubai landed in Moscow. Emirates is one of the coziest airlines. It uses advance gadgets to make flying an experience. The seats can massage the back or bottom of the passenger. I was well fed, well rested, and watching a Hindi cult film – Sholay – on my screen when I felt this stench in my nostrils. My aunt is a pathologist. Many years ago, I had gone with her to a hospital morgue. This smell was that smell. I looked around. To see if the Emirates staff would do anything – like spraying scents. The American airhostesses didn’t move at all.

The plane had landed. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. But it was evening outside.

“It was instrument landing.” One airhostess said to another.

I overheard it and asked her what instrument landing was. Since we had landed, I wasn’t afraid to ask.

“Automatic landing.” She replied. “When the pilot can’t see anything, he relies on the dashboard alone to land.”

We came out of the plane to go to the immigration check area. It was like entering a sauna – but a sauna with a burning smell. All immigration officers had worn masks. I took long breaths, sometimes opening my mouth. I took my handkerchief and tied it around my face.

I wondered if I should take the next flight and go back. This could not be Moscow.

***

I reached the hotel, and then went for a walk to Kremlin. It was nearly forty degrees. Cars had put on all possible lights. The stench was overpowering. My body felt a mild sensation of burning. You touch a hot kettle by mistake, and the sensation lingers for some time. It was that way all over the body. The red square was smoggy. Just like everything else.

It looked like a post-war city. Deserted, full of smoke, gloomy.

***

On Sunday evening, I had booked tickets to see “Swan Lake”- next to the Bolshoi. I wanted the delegation I am with to see the best of Russian ballet. Each ticket had cost us 60 US Dollars. The delegation had asked my advice about the protocol. What dress should they wear to the ballet? I said normally you wear suits to the Bolshoi, but considering the heat, it should be all right to wear simple smart casuals. T-shirts and jeans wouldn’t look good at a ballet.

The Indian delegates were in Russia for the first time. They opted to wear dark suits. I had taken off my sandals to wear socks and shoes. We entered the hall, where a wave of hot wind greeted us.

‘When will you start the air-conditioner?” I asked the usher.

“Air-conditioner? We never had it here.” She said.

For the next two hours, every spectator was busy fanning himself/herself with pamplates, newspapers. I used the tickets. I had removed the socks and shoes. The Indian gentlemen had taken off their jackets and ties. The shirts were damp. Our hands, continuously moving the emergency fans were as tired as the ballerina’s legs. The doors were kept open. Viewers who felt breathing difficulties or dry lips left the halls to go to the washrooms.

I don’t know if it was the weather. Swan Lake is a tragedy. It includes a famous number called ‘the dying swan.’ The beautiful girl who becomes woman during the day and swan in the night succumbs to the evil designs of the sorcerer. The prince can’t marry her.

What did we have here today? They changed the Swan Lake ending. The sorcerer died, and the prince and the swan married in the end. (Are you allowed to change the ending of Romeo and Juliet or Macbeth or Hamlet, simply because the copyright has expired?). Swan Lake with a happy ending. Maybe that was necessary for the dying spectators.

***

Week 31 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Five

One day when I was walking in Napoli, it started raining. Nearby was a small footbridge. I moved under it, and saw this Pakistani man with a table next to him. He was slightly plump, moustached, tall enough not to be mistaken as a Bangladeshi; his hair was black but not thick, he wore terricot trousers rather than jeans which immediately put his age in the late forties. The table was full of small items – earrings, hair bands, bracelets, sandalwood, fake jewellery.

“Namaste bhaisaab,” he smiled. “Where are you from? India?”

I explained I was from Bombay. “And you?”

“From Rawalpindi.” His face displayed a cocktail of emotions when he said it. We shook hands.

“Aren’t you feeling cold?” I asked. I was in my jacket and shoes. This man wore just a shirt; though full-sleeve it looked pretty thin. And worn-out sandals without socks.

“I’m now accustomed to this weather. It’s much worse in winter. September is still a few months away. A Pakistani has promised that he’ll give his coat to me, once he buys a new one. Let’s see. Shall I get a cup of chai for you?”

I said no thanks, and asked, “How long have you been here?”

“See... next Friday it’ll be two years.” He paused and repeated. “Two years. I first came at a time like this. Who knew winters would be so nasty here? The agent hadn’t told me.”

It was still pouring. The sky was dark. The wind carried raindrops in whichever direction it blew.

“What agent? Someone brought you here?”

“Yes. We have many in Pakistan. Agents also exist in India and Bangladesh. My agent said life was wonderful in Italy. I’ll be able to make money, get passport and bring my family. I have three children – Mohammed, Nagma and Anwar. You see I never went to school, but I want... I wanted my children to live in a good country. I worked in South Korea for nine years. That agent was good – he didn’t take much money. After working for two years in Korea I had paid off his dues. And then I could save something and send every month to my family. Korea was great. They had vacancies in the factories. I had a regular job, and they paid every month. I would have been happy to work in Korea all my life. But then... America decided to have military bases in South Korea, and they asked the Koreans to drive away all Pakistanis. I was working honestly – for nine years. And one day, my manager said I should go home. You’ve lost this job, and you won’t get another in Korea. You better go home. ”

“So you decided to come to Italy?”

“What to do? Abbajan was telling me - Ameer, beta, you’ve come back. Now stay in Pakistan. But I have parents, and wife and three children. In Rawalpindi, an illiterate like me can’t earn enough to feed so many people. The agent said Italy was a free country – good for my children when I bring them here.”

“How did you get a visa?” I asked Ameer. Pakistan doesn’t have a border with Italy that an illiterate man can cross over in the night.

“The agent arranged that. The Italian embassy gave me a work permit.”

“A work permit?”

“Yes bhaaisaab, a work permit for two months. Very expensive. It costs 12 lakh rupees. I gave away all my savings from Korea and took loans from relatives so I could pay the agent. I also took loans from the local moneylender against my house. You see after coming here, you have to pay 5000 Euros on top.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand this. What’s this 5000 Euros for? For prolonging your work permit?”

Ameer smiled. “Prolonging? We’re not educated like you, bhaisaab. We’re illegals. The Pakistani agent has his man here. He collects 5000 Euros, and submits our papers. Every few years, the Italian government pardons the illegals for whom the agents have filed papers. When that happens, I’ll become legal. After that I’ll get a passport.”

  

“Not so bad, then.” I said. “You’ll get an Italian passport. And your family will get Italian passports after that.”

“The agent had said it would happen in two years. See I’ll complete two years on Friday. After coming here, I heard it can take much longer. Even ten years. Sure you don’t want a cup of chai? I can get for both of us from a nearby shop.”

“Not for me, but you go ahead.” I said, but he didn’t.

“If you are illegal, won’t the police arrest you? They can put you in jail. Or send you back home.”

“I’ve hidden my passport. The agent had told us to hide it. And no matter what, I never tell my true name or the country I came from. Whenever they catch me, I have no name and no country. The Italian police don’t do anything. They just want money. See this....” he pointed to the goodies on the table. “Every few months, they catch me... and take all this. Confiscate. I lost about 200 Euros worth three times.”

Some tourists stopped at the table.

“Excuse me.” Ameer said and started telling them about items – “cinque – dieci – buono buono- prego...non caro”

The women haggled for a long time, and then left without buying anything. The rains had subsided by now. Ameer once again started talking to me.

“These white women don’t understand much – in the Indian stuff. They’ll spend hours, bargaining, but not part with five Euros.”

“How do you manage then? This place is very expensive.”

“Inshalla, so far I’ve survived. Six of us stay in a room that costs 350 Euros a month. I cook two times. Rent and food, that’s all I spend on... and I call my family once a month – one of my roommates has a phone card. I call using his phone. It’s unfortunate I can’t send any money home. There is nothing left.”

“Why don’t you go back to Pakistan?” Surely, I thought, for the weather and the family if nothing else.

“How will I go? How will I buy a ticket? And once I go there, I have to think of giving the money back to everyone from whom I have borrowed. If I’m not there, they’ll not trouble my family for money. They know one day I’ll have a passport and my relatives can hope to come to Europe using my help. Let’s see when the Italian govt opens up the files again. If I go now, the two years I spent here will be a waste.”   

I looked at the skies. They looked clear. The rains had stopped completely.

“Do you have children?” Ameer asked me.

“Yes. My daughter is six-years old.”

He glanced at his table and picked up a hair band.

“Please, this is a gift for her.”

“Oh no, not a gift” I said. That colour wasn’t something I would have bought anyway. I chose another one. “Let me buy this one.”

“No. I can’t take money from you. You talked to me. You spent so much time here. It feels good to talk in Urdu. It feels good to talk to our own people. This is the only time I’m connected to my home. You please take the gift bhaisaab for your daughter.” 

We argued for some time. Reluctantly he took the five Euros that I forcibly thrust in his hands.

“Khuda hafiz.” He said as I started to leave. “Please come again if you have time. I normally sell at this spot every day.”

***

Ameers were everywhere we went – Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples, Pisa... Without a single exception; Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistani street-sellers whom we met offered us a discount without asking. Even when an item was 3 Euros, they spontaneously reduced one Euro from it. They offered free toys to Devyani. In an Italian restaurant, whether you stand or sit while eating affects the price of what you eat. (More on this next week). A Bangla owner of a restaurant in Florence, as soon as he saw us, said he would charge us standing prices, but we could sit comfortably and eat.

We were their link, however brief, to home.

In Italy, Bangladeshis sell umbrellas, the blacks sell ladies’ purses, the Sri Lankans work as house maids, and Indians and Pakistanis find a variety of lowly paid jobs. The Bangladeshis and the Africans normally have an Italian boss who invests in umbrellas and purses and pays daily wages to these guys.

All of them arrive in Italy by paying 12 lakh rupees or an equivalent amount first, and then 5000 Euros on arrival for a two month work permit, in the hope of becoming legal at an indefinite point in the distant future. They hide or destroy their ID documents, live in cramped places, earn enough for survival (or die) and can’t think of going home to face the lenders from whom they have borrowed money. When the police approach, they run. If caught, they pay all they have as fines. These are the voluntary slaves of the 21^st century.

The embassies and consulates harass the well-educated and well-off applicants. But by sharing loot with agents, the corrupt visa officers gladly give the illiterate Asians a short-term work permit. Discretion is the mother of corruption. And visa sections of embassies are granted discretionary powers. The Roman Empire was infamous for the number it forced or imported into slavery. Modern Italy through its visa sections lure the Asians and Africans who end up as voluntary slaves.

The Venetian Grand Canal, the Vatican churches, the 17-feet David, the crooked Pisa tower, the Colosseum, the Florence Duomo.... near all these places you will find the umbrella-selling Bangladeshis and the purses-selling Blacks. But not a single one of them is in a position to appreciate the beauty of these magnificent artefacts.

The voluntary slaves are busy trying to survive and hoping that one day an Italian bureaucrat will pull out their file.

Ravi 

Week 30 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Four

Daniela lived in 532 and I lived in 533. Our hostel apartments had faced each other on the fifth floor of the Pushkin Institute of Russian Language and Literature. Way back in 1986-87.

 Pushkin Institute was part of the Soviet propaganda machine. The concept was simple. They picked up from each country young Russian language students (the best from each country I would like to think), trained them in Moscow for a year and sent them home as teachers to further spread the Russian language.   

Unique is often a loosely used word. But in the case of Pushkin institute it was apt. Apart from the United Nations headquarters in New York, this was the planet’s only building where you could find people from each country in the world. The tall Afghan boys were publicly reprimanded for a brawl over Polish girls. In the institute’s corridors, the North Korean boys always wore blue suits with the image of Kim II-sung on their lapels. The West Germans and the East Germans, despite having a common language, kept distance. Americans were normally the worst Russian speakers. Some of them were invited only because they were members of the communist party of the USA. Egyptians, Angolans, Brazilians and Madagascans were part of our group when we travelled around the USSR.

There were two distinct groups. The “Cap-countries” and the “Soc-countries”. House of Friendhship was the inviter and sponsor of the Cap-countries. At least for this purpose, India was considered Capitalist. So I shared my class with students from France, Austria, Germany, Italy, Denmark, and Japan. The “soc-countries” sent large groups, which studied separately. The Poles, Hungarians, East Germans, Cubans, Chinese, Vietnamese, Afghans, and North Koreans had their own syllabi and classrooms. Each group of “Soc-country” was accompanied by a “group leader”, whose task was to monitor and control. To make sure they were no undesirable alliances. Or disappearances. At a particular hour in the evening, the Polish or the Chinese or the Afghan leader had a right to knock on the rooms of their wards to make sure the boy or the girl was in their own room– and without an outsider. This was not always enforced. A bottle of vodka could fix anything. Or the group leader would get entangled in a romance himself and forget his duties.

We, the Cap students, were fearless. Nobody monitored us, nobody bothered us. The two bottom floors of the institute were lecture halls, and the students lived on the upper floors. The building was self–contained, it had canteens and cafes. One elderly Indian lady, phobic about the Russian winter, indeed closeted herself in the institute during the whole year.

Not so long since we had left puberty behind. Testosterone and estradiol were in full flow. At Pushkin, you didn’t need an excuse for introductions. When queued up for breakfast, you could start talking to the girl in front of you and then join the table where she went. (It was important to loiter before finding the right person to stand behind). Each floor had a television room. You could also press your clothes there. This was another place for introductions.

If you had managed to buy two tickets to the theatre, you could easily ask the girl for a date five minutes after introductions. If she was a “cap-girl” she invariably agreed. (And if she didn’t agree, there were so many others.) “Soc-girls” preferred to go with a chaperone. (I had to book three tickets when taking out Polish or Yugoslavian girls). While watching a cinema, if you put your arm around the girl, there was no twitching of muscles or a stare of surprise. Holding hands when walking under the snow was a norm. Human warmth was essential in the freezing Moscow winters. On 31 December 1986, we had a mass kissing celebration. We walked up and down the staircases, the boys hugging and kissing every girl in sight. (There were some 900 girls, from a hundred odd countries).

The more advanced ones could take the relationships to their logical (bio-logical) conclusion. AIDS had not yet entered the dictionaries. We knew at least one room in the hostel with three beds, where six people slept. A super tall Austrian guy changed his partner every night. He even slept with a Russian floor administrator (дежурная). Pushkin institute was the Brave New World. Everyone wanted to make the most of the one year we would spend there.

It was exotic to make friends from so many different countries, and continents and races. Pushkin was our way to travel around the world. A single citizen may be the smallest and most unscientific sample for judging a country. But that’s how we formed opinions about countries we had never seen – based on one or two friends. After living for a year with my flatmates - Albert, Isao, Esa and Mark- I knew how people in Austria, Japan, Finland and France talked, gestured, looked and behaved.

Antonio, Annalucia, Laura and Daniela had formed the picture of Italy in my mind then. After leaving Pushkin we all scattered. The world did not know Internet yet.  We wrote letters for a couple of years. But writing letters by hand and posting them internationally was not a business many were fond of.  We gradually lost one another- for the next twenty years.

***

Two years ago, my French friend Carole found my 20-year old Indian address, and on an impulse wrote a greeting card. We have sold that flat years ago, but the Indian postman- being an Indian postman- knew where to deliver the greeting card. That triggered a massive web search from me. Many of my Pushkin friends were by now PhDs and had written academic books. We had a reunion in Paris last year (and Helsinki this year). Reunion of the Russian-speaking-United Nations. Antonio and Annalucia were found in the www, but not Daniela. Daniela was soft-spoken and gentle. She lived in 532 and I lived in 533. I knew she was from Florence.

In May 2010, as my train reached Florence, I thought I should try to locate Daniela. It was twenty-three years since we had said goodbye to each other.

***

What do you need to find a person? Name, address and telephone. I knew Daniela’s name and maiden surname. Some girls change surnames after marriage and vanish from the search engines. That must have happened with her. I had the address of Daniela’s parents. Taken 23 years ago. And a phone number which had so few digits that no Italian I asked could decipher it.

The address said Scandicci. Italian maps are peculiar. In my Venice chapter I talked about the small print. Furthermore, no map has an alphabetical index of the roads. You are expected to take the map and look all over it to locate a particular street. I abandoned the effort and asked the owner of our hotel. She said I should take the tram.

On Saturday, May 8, I decided to go on a mission to find Daniela’s parents, who should then lead me to her. When I left the hotel for my morning run, I took the address with me. Why would I need a tram? I started running parallel to the tram route, and every five minutes asked a passerby where this street Scandicci was.

“Scandicci? Lontano... lontano.” Said a woman wearing glasses.

I kept running. After fifteen minutes I went inside a shop.

“Scandicci? Lontano...lontano.” said the shopkeeper.

Ok, lontano. But how lontano? I thought.

 “Quanti chilometri?” I asked.

“Lontano. Molto lontano.”

I must have spoken to about ten Italians. I had already run more than ten kilometres. (Which meant I must run them back as well.) This morning Daniela’s parents were not going to get surprised.

***

That afternoon, we visited Galleria dell’Accademia where I sat mesmerised in front of David. You read about him last week.

“If it’s ok with you, we’re going to look for Daniela.” I told Mena. “And we’re travelling by tram.” I said to Devyani.

At the tram stop, I showed the address once again.

“Scandicci?” said that Italian driver and spoke at a speed that cannot be digested by someone who has studied Italian for four months.

“Potrebbe ripetere per favore?” I said, and he repeated everything once again as dramatically as before. This is the problem of little knowledge. You ask a question in the local language, and you are not treated as a foreigner any more.

Like search engines, linguistic minds match words even when approximately close. I thought the stop where I should get down was nenne-regali. And we got down when I saw Nenni-Torregalli. It looked pretty interesting. On one side was a hypermall. And on the other side... there was nothing. It was like a desert.

We went inside the hypermall. Used the toilets (more about this next week), Devyani immediately sat on the metal horse which moved only when it was fed one-euro coins. We also had to buy a few chocolates and Mena looked around the mall to see if it had any Italian souvenirs.

Outside, I asked for Scandicci to a gentleman coming out of the parking lot.

“Where is your car?” he asked.

“A piedi.” I replied.

“Lontano. Lontano.” He said and pointed to beyond the desert. “Walking?”

On the tram coming from the opposite direction, I sent Mena and Devyani back.

“I want to see if I can find the address.” I said. “Now that I’ve come so far. It may take time. Because even if I find it, Daniela’s parents may not be at home. Even if they are, Daniela may not be in Florence any more. Or in Italy for that matter.”

I started walking through the desert. To go to the other side, where this road Scandicci was.

***

After walking for about three kilometres I reached civilisation.

“I want to find the Scandicci road.” I asked the lady with a pram.

“This is Scandicci.” She said.

“Which?”

“Everything here is Scandicci.” She said and waved her arms in the air. She looked at my address book. “Scandicci is the name of this town. The street you have here is “via IV Agosto”, but I have never heard of it.”

“Which direction should I go to?”

“Since I don’t know the road, I don’t know the direction either.”

So I took one main road – at random, and kept walking. I must have asked twenty people before I met those two old men. They must be in their eighties.

“Via IV Agosto? Yes, there is a street by that name. But lontano... lontano.” They said. “You have a car?”

I said I would walk. And they gave me the directions which included two roundabouts, one garden, a fountain, two bridges, and a combination of rights and lefts.

To cut this dragging story severely short, I should go to a point where after another hour’s walk, I actually found the street. My Pushkin address book is naturally 23 years old. It has survived my moves from one country to another. On the house number in Daniela’s address, there was a large ink blotch. The number could have been 1, 11, 21, 71 or 91. I decided to try all of them. House no. 1 was shut. But in the balcony of house no.11 was an old man standing, with a stick in hand.

“Buonasera” I shouted from the street. It was already evening. “ I am looking for Daniela.”

“What?” he asked.

“Daniela. Is Daniela your daughter?”

Come inside, he gestured. I looked closely at his features. To see if they resembled Daniela’s.

“Where are you from?” He asked. I explained.

“My daughter has gone out.” He said. And then started a long discourse about his family. As  I gathered, he had three daughters and a son. And the youngest daughter was about to have a baby. So his family had gone to the hospital.

“Daniela. Is Daniela your daughter? What is your surname?” I shouted in his ear.

Then he started describing the jobs he had done when young. If I understood correctly, he was an engineer by profession. And skiing was his hobby when he was young. And he watched football in the evenings. We were still standing at the gate. I thanked him for the Italian language lesson and left.

***

A man was working in the small garden outside house no.21. He looked at me questioningly. I looked at him. He was young, hopefully with excellent hearing faculty. Just as I wanted to open my mouth, a woman approached him. I looked at her. She looked at me.

“Daniela...” I said. No question marks any more.

She looked at me for about ten seconds and said,

“Ravi?”

Then she gave a smile that had not changed for the past twenty three years.

Ravi

 
P.S.

That evening; Daniela, her husband, son and my family went out to dinner. Where I found her used to be her parents’ house, but only last year Daniela had moved there. Daniela works as Guida Turistica, so we learnt many new things about Firenze from her.

I can tell you that finding a friend in real life is far more thrilling than finding someone on  Facebook.

R.