Mass Personalisation

Dear Ravi,

Today, on 23^rd January, on behalf of Tesco India, I have great pleasure in wishing you a very happy birthday!  You have been one of our most valuable customers since 2010 when you shopped at Tesco, Parel for the first time. As a token of our appreciation, I am attaching a free coupon for three tickets at PVR for Raees, a film with your favorite star Shahrukh Khan. A free bottle of Chianti, the red wine that you so often buy, is also waiting for you. You can pick it up at any of our three shops; Parel, Kemp’s Corner or Church gate, by using your club card.

Our travel counter informs me that you have booked a trip to Hong Kong in March. I take this opportunity to wish you a wonderful vacation.

Please pass on my regards to Mena and Devyani.

Best Regards

John Smith

Customer relations, Tesco India

*****

This week, on 23 January, my birthday, the first few emails and messages I received were from CITIBANK, ICICI Lombard, Birla Insurance, Toyota, Amazon, Lufthansa Miles and More, Vodafone and for an unknown reason Asian paints. All of them addressed me as Dear Ravi or Dear Mr Ravi Abhyankar.

*****

In 1995, TESCO, the giant British retailer, launched a Club card Loyalty Scheme. Customers joined by providing their name, address, date of birth, email, family details, dietary requirements and product preferences. A customer’s shopping at Tesco was recorded via his/her Club card. Attractive discounts were given and promotions run for loyal customers. TESCO also did a clever thing. By using this detailed data, its computers began generating “personalized” letters. Each letter was carefully tailored taking into account the recipient’s preferences and shopping history. In 2004, TESCO sent an estimated 4 million variations, none of them identical to any other.

The letter at the beginning of this article is fictional. TESCO doesn’t yet exist in Mumbai. However, Tesco club card members in the UK get similar letters on their birthdays. John Smith who signs at the bottom of the letter as Customer relations manager, TESCO, has never in his life met the person to whom he writes the letter. For all we know, John Smith himself may be fictional.

*****

On the same day, I actually received dozens of messages that simply said ‘happy birthday.’ Short and crisp. Each message at the top told me the name of the sender- a human being I knew from some walk of my life.

Earlier, you needed to actually type this message. Type ‘happy birthday’ letter by letter, don’t forget the space between the two words. Facebook has now come up with a beautiful feature to make your life more comfortable. On 23^rd morning it tells you It’s Ravi Abhyankar’s birthday today, wish him well! When you see that, you simply press 1 on your Smartphone - that’s it. Ravi Abhyankar has instantly received your ‘happy birthday’ message. You have performed your duty without wasting time. The box is ticked with supreme efficiency. You’ve let Ravi know how valuable your friendship is. He now knows you remember his birthday, and have taken special efforts to wish him on this special day in his life. Simply press 1, and ensure a life-long friendship.

*****

In our Bombay flat, we got our first landline, the immobile phone, in 1980. Which meant I received birthday wishes during my first eighteen years exclusively face-to-face, with people hugging me or shaking my hand. It couldn’t be more personal.

After that, until 1996, I think, those of my friends and relatives who couldn’t meet and wish, did so over the phone. Our voice, like our fingerprints, is unique and a live phone call is a very personal interaction.

Not everyone could call. Phone calls were expensive then, and my friends were spread across the world. We sent handwritten birthday letters. You had to remember the person’s birthday, estimate the efficiency of your country’s postal service, calculate back, handwrite a nice letter and send it. The lazy ones sent a pre-printed greeting card and signed at the bottom. They still needed to remember the birthday on their own, write the address and take the trouble of posting it beforehand. Handwritten letters were a personal communication, the result of an action far more laborious than simply pressing 1.

*****

And now, in 2017, machines send personalized messages and humans send impersonal messages.

*****

The decline in personal communication started with automated answering machines, I think. Press this, press that, listen to Tchaikovsky music while you wait, and keep reminding yourself that the sweet voice at the other end is a taped voice, she is talking to you but she’s not actually there. Even today, in Bombay, I book my kitchen gas cylinders exclusively by talking to taped voices and instructions.

*****

Every time we interact with a gadget connected to the internet, we are telling the machine something about ourselves. The ads we see on our laptop are specific to us, a result of the websites we have browsed recently. Amazon and Netflix recommend to us books and films to suit our individual taste, based on the history we have created in collusion with them. The ads we see on the right hand side of our Gmail are a product of the contents of our personal emails, that are no longer as personal or private as we imagine. European Union will soon require all cars (eCall initiative) to be equipped with wireless transmitters ostensibly to track accidents. However, it also means a man can’t drive to his lover’s house without leaving a trace.

Your I-phone is a spy, a stalker that records almost everything in your life. And you pay a high price for something that can spy over you. It’s like Trump building a wall to stop Mexicans entering the USA and asking them to pay for it. In order to connect to people, we are getting connected more with machines; perhaps machines already influence our lives more than people. We can stay away from people, sometimes happily, but to be away from gadgets produces immediate withdrawal symptoms.

Ericsson, the leading maker of wireless network equipment, has forecast as many as 50 billion machines connected by 2020. This figures includes 10 billion cell phones and tablet computers. Contrast the 50 billion machines with the 8 billion population then. Most machines will talk to other machines and not to us. Your house windows will open or shut, your air-conditioners or heaters will go on or off automatically, by some censor measuring temperature and humidity telling them to do so.

Robotic chatter is already a major problem for mobile networks. They were initially set for human communication, not for machines. My friends in the age group 18-40 prefer to send a text rather than talk. Though induced by a human, texting is also a communication between two machines. Mobile networks are planning a whole revamp of the system to recognize that machines will talk far more than humans. Telefonica, Deutsche Telekom, Vodafone and France Telecom have established separate business entities to develop products catering to machines.

*****

I don’t understand why a facebook birthday greeting app requires the user to press 1. It should automatically send ‘happy birthday’ to the friend without human interference, just like the Tesco letters. The recipient could also install an app that automatically thanks the sender.

In future, the machine-to-machine talk will ensure that birthdays are remembered, birthday wishes are sent, acknowledged and thanked for, without either the sender or the receiver knowing about it.

George Orwell’s Animal Farm ends with these words: Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, from man to pig, and from pig to man again, but already it was impossible to say which was which.

I am afraid in the not so distant future, you can look from man to machine, and machine to man, and it may be impossible to tell which is which.

Ravi

Accidental Brains

In my Trump diary last week, I talked briefly about savants and wondered if Trump was a savant of some sort. While researching the subject of the Savant syndrome, I came across several interesting stories. Savants can be of two types, natural and acquired. Acquired savants are those who are normal, ordinary people who suffer some sort of a major injury (usually to the head), and their lives change thereafter - they cease to be ordinary. How? You will find out in the following five stories.

*****

Dr Anthony Cicoria was a practicing orthopedic surgeon in New York. In 1994, a 42 year old then, Tony was talking inside a payphone booth. The weather was awful, a storm raged outside. Just as he was leaving, a nasty bolt of lightning struck and flattened him. His heart stopped breathing. Luckily for him, the woman behind him in the payphone queue was a trained nurse. She resuscitated him, saving his life. Tony suffered burns to his face and left foot, the entry and exit points for the lightning bolt. He later recalled seeing his own body on the ground surrounded by a bluish-white light. In a few weeks he recovered, all his reports normal.

Everything seemed normal, but he was seized with an unstoppable craving to listen to classical piano music. Having never played before, he bought music sheets, a piano and began teaching himself. Instead of playing Chopin and Bach, his head was suddenly filled with music that he would describe as “coming from the other side.” Within three months of his electrocution, he began spending all his time in composing and playing music.

In 2007, he presented his compositions to the world. A year later, he debuted with his public performance on the piano, recorded live by BBC and German television.

(You can listen to one of Dr Cicoria’s albums here and you can watch him play on piano here).

*****

Orlando Sarrell: On 17 August 1979, the African American Orlando from Virginia was a 10 year old boy. In academics and indeed in all walks of life he was an ordinary boy. That day, a baseball hit him on the head. The ball used in baseball is almost 150 gms, and it can be lethal at the speed at which it travels. Orlando fell to the ground, was unconscious but fortunately recovered and got up himself. His head hurt for many days. Eventually the headache disappeared. But Orlando noticed he had developed a new calendar ability. He could tell instantly the day of the week for any date from any year.

Now this is an ability some of us may have witnessed in autistic people. One man in my neighbourhood, who is socially inept, amazes us with this uncanny ability. Without being autistic, or knocked down by a baseball, I can also perform this calculation mentally. (In my Open Diary week 47 (2007), I explained how anyone can do it. But that is calculation. To see it instantly requires something special).

But that is not all. Starting from that day when the baseball hit him, he can unerringly recall what he ate every day, what the weather was like on any given day, and what he wore on each day of the past 37 years. He has been repeatedly tested by scientists, and has not failed once.

(You can watch in this 4-minute clip his incredible autobiographical memory)

*****

Alonzo Clemens: as a three year old suffered a bad fall. So bad, now in his late fifties, his IQ is around 40, he is unable to read or write, or tie his shoelaces. Alonzo is technically a disabled person. However, he is the world’s best animal sculptor.

He needs to look at an animal for a few seconds, and with clay in his hand, he makes an exact replica within thirty minutes. He can take a fleeting look at an animal on television, and sculpts a three dimensional masterpiece based on that image. He uses only his memory while sculpting, no photos. And he has created a horse sculpture in the horse’s real life size.

The film Rainman (Dustin Hoffman) brought to the world’s attention autism and the savant syndrome. That film benefited Alonzo. He has sold one sculpture for 45,000 US Dollars.

(You can watch Alonzo making the sculptures in the 90 second clip and see and order his sculptures here)

*****

Jason Padgett: graduated from school only because he had friends who did his assignments. He had no interest in academics whatsoever. In 2002, after singing with friends at a karaoke bar in Tacoma, Wisconsin, he was attacked by two thugs. He tried to fight them, but they hit him hard on the back of his head.

When Jason woke up in the hospital, the world looked different. Literally. He could see everything in geometric shapes. Frame by frame. It was like zooming in a picture so much that you see the individual pixels. He was both fascinated and frightened.

Over the next three years, he developed several phobias, never went out of the house, but suddenly fell hugely in love with math and expressing math through geometrical shapes. Instead of saying 8x8x8=512, he would draw a beautiful cube with 8x8 on each side, making the shape with 512 tiny cubes.

When he finally got over his stress, he enrolled for a math degree. He saw math equations as geometrical shapes. People found that he had a unique faculty to hand-draw those shapes. Jason uses only a pencil and a ruler. Most of his fellow students said they would have loved math as a subject if they could see it expressed in such lovely shapes.

“I see shapes and angles everywhere in real life – from the geometry of rainbow, to the fractals in water spiraling down a drain. It’s just really beautiful.” He said in an interview to Live Science.

Today, Jason is the only person in the world who can hand-draw fractals. As to what fractals are you can see here.

And you may want to watch his 13 minute TedTalk called ‘How math saved my life’.

*****

Daniel Tammet: is an Englishman, 37 years old now. As a child, he suffered epileptic fits. Unlike the four examples before, Daniel is autistic; he can’t drive a car, change a bulb or distinguish right from left.

He is, however, obsessed with counting. He has accurately recalled ‘pi’ to 22,514 places. He can multiply numbers and find cubic roots faster than a calculator. Since his epileptic seizures, he sees numbers as shapes, colours and textures. He considers 289 as very ugly, while 333 as very attractive. For him 117 is a handsome number, tall and lanky. ‘When I multiply numbers together, I see two shapes. The two shapes merge, and a third shape emerges. That’s the answer. It’s a mental imagery. It’s math without having to think.’

Daniel is important for science because unlike most savants, he is able to describe what is in his head. He knows ten languages. He took part in an experiment where he learnt conversational Icelandic in seven days (Icelandic is a type of language that most people would struggle to speak in after months of study). At the end of the seven days, he was interviewed on Icelandic television – in Icelandic language. This outstanding feat can be watched  in the clip titled ‘Brainman’.

*****

After reading the stories, the first thought that occurs perhaps to each of us is that our brain is full of superhuman abilities; we just don’t know how to tap them. It may be tempting for some to bang their heads against the wall to become a maths genius or a symphony composer. It would be a risk, we don’t know exactly which point to bang our heads at.

I wonder if yoga practitioners have tried to access those abilities through meditation or self mortification. Does enlightenment have anything do with this awakening of an ability through some blow? Did the Buddha experience some sort of a shock while meditating?

Prof. Allan Snyder from the Centre of the Mind at a Canberra university says: “Savants have usually had some kind of brain damage. Whether it’s an onset of dementia later in life, a blow to the head or, in the case of Daniel, an epileptic fit. And it’s that brain damage that creates a savant. I think that it’s possible for a perfectly normal person to have access to these abilities.”

I am sure one day science will find the ways to access these abilities, ways easier than getting electrocuted or knocked down by a baseball or thugs.

Ravi 

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