Living Monstrosity

Are we headed east?

2009-10-12T14:30:00.000+04:00

Corporate greed strikes again. The turn of the century marked a decided shift of mass industrial production to Eastern shores. Everything from Swatch watches to SIM cards and BMX bicycles to exquisite cars are manufactured between Shanghai and Shenzhen. Why, you ask? Cheap labour and excellent infrastructure! Three Chinese graduate engineers do in China what one high school graduate does for in the US.

China’s only real competitor in terms of cheap labour and technical skills, India, is light years behind in terms of infrastructure. China keeps India nervously busy about its defense. Indians, with that nauseating ‘nationalistic’ zeal, take the bait all too easily spending billions of dollars for the cause. However, should China ever decide to attack India, the whole affair might finish faster than a 20-20 cricket match. So, China marches on. Alone.

Pioneering companies must wake up and evaluate the free exchange of information. They need to clearly define how much is too much to prevent mass imitation. Circa 2009, these companies are absolutely thrilled with the profits made due to manufacturing in the East. But what happens, say in 2015, when China decides to increase export taxes for foreign companies exponentially? They will of course go a step further by decreasing export taxes for local companies dramatically. We’re all proper screwed then, aren’t we?

Chinese goods are and will continue to flood the market. Let’s make no mistake about it, these products are on par with American/European ones.
This isn’t because of a remarkable uplift in Chinese innovation. It is because this information was gift wrapped with a seal of ‘secrecy’ and presented to the Chinese.

To be crystal clear, China is not the enemy. Greed is. If immediate profits matter more than tradition then be prepared to be wiped out by cheap emerging competition.

- Fahad Saleem

Unveiling a maiden

2009-09-06T12:05:00.002+04:00

I gazed at her, astonished by her slender build. She is beautiful. She turns her head clockwise, holds it as if contemplating a very deep thought. Then dismissing that thought turns her head counter clockwise as though forming a new opinion.

I had not known serenity before I witnessed her graceful movements. With an air of confidence, “I’ve been there, done it all before”, is what she echoes. I wish I were so certain in life.

Occasionally she does get into fits - aloof and spiralling out of control. But I keep my anger in check for we all have those days. Frankly though, at the end of it all, she makes me a better person. She makes me gleam in the crowd. I even smell splendid, of her. Sigh.

I must, however, turn her off now.

Long live my first washing machine.

Oh to be young and foolish

2009-07-26T14:37:00.008+04:00

Wednesday night began ecstatically with a drawn match that helped us book a semi final berth. From then on it was an incredibly humorous night, complete with unfortunate events.

It was 11 p.m. by the time I left the stadium. This of course meant dinner would have to be bought at a 24-hour petrol station. By this time I was tired, lazy, hungry and sleepy. Taking advantage of this misery, my brain helped itself to some harmless mind games. ‘Should I take the 10km long road to reach home or just cut through the desert?’ ‘Should I eat right here or eat at home after a shower?’

While these questions were juggling around in my head, I found myself convinced that the ‘shortcut’ was the best route in the given circumstances. Ten minutes later, my car tires were firmly imbedded in the water-like sand of the Arabian Desert. Acceleration in either direction produced a fountain of sand rising 10 meters or so. What just happened?

I got out of the car to analyze the situation

• It was past midnight
• I was stuck in the middle of very fine loose desert
• I was driving my cousin’s Peugeot 307, which has trouble accelerating on a straight road let alone the desert sands
• It was as hot as a furnace laced with 90% humidity

As my heart rate began to climb, my brain assumed the role of the ‘cool-as-a-cucumber’ dude. I could see “Do Not Panic” signs being flashed with the same frequency as said heart rate. With hands on my hips and feet planted in the sinking sand I couldn’t help but snicker. “What the f*** were you thinking, mate? It’s a bloody match box-car thing not an SUV. Hmph, okay, big deal, we’ll get out of this.”

I started digging out the sand (with my strong capable hands) from around the left front tire which seemed to be locked in a loving embrace with the desert. This is when I learnt the true meaning of ‘fine loose sand’. It was almost as though the sand was mocking me. With every scoop of sand I dug out, a newer batch of sand would belly dance its way back. So approach number one was abandoned.

Okay, simple. Need to search for a plank like thing to place under the left tire and smoothly reverse my way out. Haha, right! Approach Two was abandoned too.

Then I tried the following, in no particular order – pushing the car with all the energy I had left, accelerating like a madman whilst simultaneously steering violently (think F1 warm up lap), lifting the car (haha).

All these brave attempts lasted a full hour at which point I decided to walk back to the 'Oh PLEASE God let it be a' 24 hour Petrol Station. I briefly explained my predicament to a few idle passersby and attendants. This was followed by – “A Peugeot 307? Really? Are you crazy?” I was then handed the telephone number of a vehicle recovery ‘specialist’. This is how the conversation unfolded

VRS: Which is car?
FS: Peugeot 307
VRS: [hahahahaha]
FS: Just off Emirates road
VRS: 250
FS: 150
VRS: 200
FS: 160
VRS: 180 is last
FS: Okay, be here in 10 minutes.

45 minutes later he arrived. He checked the car, turned to face me and said something really profound, in his Pakistani accent of course “Aisa risk kabhi nahi lena chahiye”. I sat quietly inside the car, which was dragged out with relative ease by the VR.

And that was how Wednesday night, I mean, Thursday morning unfolded.

Moral of the story – ‘If you see a short cut, ignore it.’

the shortlived mourning

2009-05-31T15:47:00.005+04:00

So, I lost my iPhone a few days back. It was my most expensive purchase ever. An hour of panic, running around and frantic phone calls later I gave up. I was heartbroken beyond measure. I was running my life on that thingamajig.

Despite my colleague’s assurances that it wasn’t the end of the world, I couldn’t gather myself up for dinner. I just stayed in my hotel room and mourned the loss. My eyes were red from holding back the sorrow. It’s silly actually. It was dramatic then because it felt like someone cut my arm off.

Just then something very fitting crossed my mind. I thought of other things I could lose. I thought of my family – the parents, the siblings and I thought of all my friends. I thought of how it would be when I learn that I cannot play football anymore. I wondered blankly how grievous such a moment would be if it arrived. In a movie-like moment, the iPhone didn’t matter that much anymore.

I could always buy a new one, non?

that fantastic leather orb

2009-05-08T20:36:00.010+04:00

‘Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that’

A football player, professional or semi-professional, goes through a series of ego shattering drills on the training ground. These drills are designed to test one’s will, patience and heart. They’ll push you to the limit and then some more till you’re reduced to tears; till you wince with pain and are convinced that you cannot go on further. Oh and they WILL push you further over that limit. Strangely though, when it’s all over you feel fantastic. An indescribable feeling that - 'sweet pain' is what I call it. I have often felt sorry for leisure footballers who haven’t gone through this. It is absolute magic I tell you. It’ll kill you and then bring you back to life.

My earliest memories take me back to images of a restless boy imitating fantastic dribbles, passes, free kicks and penalties. Football was, is and will be my first love. I am at peace when I’m on the field for those 90 minutes. The moving ball captivates me, the adrenaline rush of the runs thrills me and the drama of it all swallows me.

It’s been twenty years since I started playing football. It’s been twenty years since 1st grade. As soon as the bell signalling the start of the break went off, we’d get into action. Tiffin boxes were emptied in no time and out we came on to the field. Then we would search for kids drinking cola off cans. Once a can was acquired it was crushed and used as a ‘ball’. Teams were quickly selected and with much intensity our game of footcan was played. We played with tin cans till up to the fifth grade. The only time we’d get to play with a ball was during PT class or on the streets with Arab kids. I remember how our PT sir told us of an inter-class football tournament during the fifth grade. One over-zealous and obviously excited student immediately asked whether we would be playing with a tin can or a ball. The whole class burst out laughing. We never played with a tin can again.

School football was something else. The skills learnt while playing street football in the nights were displayed with panache in school. This was followed by college football - marred by politics and what not. I dearly miss partnering Jill up front. I believe we made for what was probably the most capable yet under rated strike combination. Jill was a spectacular striker with immense upper body strength with which he could easily shrug off the toughest of defenders. What fun we had dispatching many a defences!

What is it about the game that draws me to it? What is it about the game that makes millions watch it with so much passion? Why can’t I sleep the night before a match? Why do I feel like my whole life depends on my performance minutes before a match?

Football for me encompasses all the emotions one feels otherwise - like, dislike, love, hatred, humour, joy, sadness, passion, almost any emotion one could conceive of. Most importantly, it is about discipline. Ah, yes discipline! We terrene mortals are constantly in search of ‘meaning’. None of us really know the meaning of ‘meaning of life’, yet ever so often we indulge in seeking it. We try ever so hard to get away from it all.

I know how to get away from our mundane lives, even if for just a bit. Let me tell you about the beautiful sport of Football…

the hesitant alter ego

2009-04-13T18:30:00.011+04:00

I’ve always found Tata’s Safari advertisements incredibly brilliant. One cannot help but shudder with excitement when the ‘reclaim your life’ slogan is recited in that calm yet trancelike tone. Of course the car itself (or as they claim – SUV) isn’t spectacular but that’s not the point at all. The most recent Safari ad is by far the best of the lot. It asks a series of questions interlaced with spectacular shots of fascinating locales of New Zealand.

If you looked back on your life, what would you remember? The corner office? The corporate powerplays? The VIP lounge? What would you remember?

Somehow I relate to all these questions. In fact, I relate to it very closely. The corner office – check. The corporate powerplays – check. The VIP lounge(s) – check. But really now, WHAT would I remember? None of all that I hope.

Indeed, I’d love to reclaim my life. If only I knew how to; without losing my job that is! I’ve often prided myself as a leader, a charismatic one even. The incumbent virtue of leadership demands, rather mechanically, decisiveness at all times. Yet I can’t make such decisions concerning myself. Attempting to answer the question – ‘to do, or not to?’ has left me puzzled for quite a while now.

Every week I find some free time during which I browse the World Wide Web in search of holiday destinations. I’ve bookmarked quite a few interesting packages. But of course, nothing has materialized as yet. During the other times of the week I sit and think of ways to woo a certain ‘Black’ Beauty as she’s referred to. I know I’m serious about it and yet this immature dread of rejection prevents me from doing anything about it. My friends insist that I act now or it might be too late and what not. But but but, don’t you understand? What if she…damn!

One would argue that I’m just lazy but the truth unfortunately is far removed. I think I’ve grown accustomed to the feeling. I’ve let myself, for far too long, stay in the comfort of the discomfort that I'm getting used to. Tragic, yes?

So yes, I must reclaim my life, and soon. My once-upon-a-time ingenious mind shall conjure a solution. Soon!

-Fahad

and now to the 'right' of India...

2008-05-24T22:18:00.006+04:00

We silly beings are hooked on to a complex matrix designed by the czars of deceit. We do almost about anything to delude ourselves from this unfortunate truth. I try to keep up but have almost always failed. I have however touched base with a tangible solution. Travel!

So far all my traveling has been work related which although at first does not sound 'fun', it actually is. Well it has been so far at least.

Oh oh, I've realized that the eastern most part of the world that I've been to is Bangalore. For shame! Well that changes tonight.

I'm all packed and ready to leave for Singapore. A business trip even. :)

Sigh. Or maybe not. I haven't made up my mind yet.

Run Fahad run...

2008-05-23T15:23:00.014+04:00

I lay breathing heavily on the moist grass with the flood-lit sky staring down at me. Just a few moments back I received the ball on my chest, controlled it with my feet and made a heart stopping run.

I went past three defenders before coming one on one with the goal keeper. With him charging towards me and sensing two others coming up from behind, I picked my spot, my favourite one. I tilted to the left and shot to the right watching and hoping to get enough swerve. It beat the keeper, but would it do enough?

Those fractions of a second are the hardest. I fell to the the ground with my eyes glued to the ball.

The ball hit the post and was eventually cleared. I lay still with a wry smile. “Tough luck,lad”, someone shouted. With a heavy sigh I gathered myself up and jogged back toward the mid field hoping to make a run again. Soon.

Oh how I love this game...

the Skinny tag

2008-05-09T23:36:00.003+04:00

She calls me “Skinny”. With a capital ‘S’ even. Ha!

I love it. :)

of a bygone...

2008-04-21T21:56:00.022+04:00

I’ve been meaning to write for quite a while now but never got to it. I'm finally back. Like anything. I write today out of shock, dismay, anger and frustration after learning a little detail about someone I’ve come to care about over the last one year or so. When I say “care” I do not mean an infatuation or a silly crush. It is more like tremendous respect coupled with absolute awe and fascination. Emotions, I’ve hardly felt for anyone else.

So this morning I learnt of a past. Everyone has a secret, a tragic event they rather not speak of. She had one too. I couldn't muster enough courage to ask what transpired and really, I must not. Although learning this doesn’t change anything or affect the feelings I have for her, it deeply saddens me. I shudder to think of what might have happened hence I rather not know.

It takes all to make the world, but it takes a cruel, non appreciative, insecure, guilt-ridden, weak man to drive away a person of such intelligence and beauty. I’m actually thankful I do not know the intricate details, for it would make me hunt this person down in this city I temporarily call home. With vengeance even. Mind my roar, okay?

Through the course of the day I wondered whether I would be such a low life of a man, whether I’m capable of being it. Never! "I am not those men", said the mighty Saladdin in the movie Kingdom of Heaven. Indeed. I am not.

Now I respect the subject much more, beyond what I’m capable of even, for many reasons but most of all for her courage and how she got through that period unscathed. I say that because I know our community's reaction to divorce. I know how it is made to look like. Shocking and tragic I tell you. Funnily, I would’ve never guessed it had she not told me. That is what I adore about her. She doesn’t bathe in self-pity or expect sympathy. Marvelous!

As I end this with a promise that this will be the last time I talk about it, I pray that her ill-feeling toward the opposite gender subsides and she sees that not all men are as such. I hope she will learn to love again and be loved in return. I hope I will be that person for I wouldn’t have it any other way.

To you oh nubile one! Thank you for tolerating me.

Blog it baby

2007-09-08T21:19:00.004+04:00

I've blogged before this. Mostly about stupid trivial things related to growing up.
Now I am back like anything. What better time than now to just sit and write, write and then write some more, now that I find myself more alone with myself than ever (notice how I cleverly don't use the word "lonely"). To myself that too, for I don't think anyone visits this super secret hideout.

I take an oath to blog about the silliest things that involve amazingly interesting facts/incidents like how long I took to bathe, travel time, the power setting of the iron I use, etc etc.

Welcome.