A heartfelt obituary to Valentine’s Day

This year, Valentine’s day came and went. Many people didn’t even realize. And this year, many who were feral fans of the occasion looked down upon this day as something silly and childish. Marketing types who used to glorify this day as the next best thing for mankind after Angry Birds app kept their enthusiasm markedly mute. So much so, in Singapore, what till recently was the global headquarters of St. Valentine, many florists resorted to desperate touting to push their flower stocks. In India, where urban youth used to celebrate this day more as celibacy day by ransacking greeting-card shops, the day passed by rather tamely. Their 15 minutes of fame denied, these youths resorted to using their weapons of mass destruction as cricket bats instead. And the biggest sin of all was committed by Hollywood who forgot to launch any Valentine day movie. 2012 is truly the end of the world.

All this has left me with a sour mood. Till last year, I could pretend to be the Bohemian Antichrist Anti-Capitalist Anti-Hallmark Anti-Sybarite Rebel Cool by criticizing such imported celebrations. And this year, everyone around me is like me. It’s that “I am no more the only gay in the village” feeling from Little Britain, and it hurts.

So now I have come to realize the real essence and beauty of this day. Economic spin-offs apart, Valentine’s Day taught us that colonizing Westerners could love too. It gave us adults an opportunity to walk around again with big colorful balloons. And then there are those unbeatable discounts under Valentine’s Day packages, like men’s skin toning plus fat burning plus facial lift combo, all for sixty dollars. No one offered me that on Independence Day. It was a great excuse for many to leave office on time as well. We are living in a world where traditional languages are dying out, ancient customs are being forgotten, and mother’s recipes are dying out with mothers. If Valentine’s Day also fades away, what else will we keep holding on to?

I have a strong feeling that Iran or China is behind this just like they were behind Mia’s middle finger show during this year’s Superbowl. The fish out of water state of the banking industry is also to be blamed. Do you recall those couples this year who were saying that we would rather spend quality time together at home this Valentine’s Day? Don’t fall for that honey. More likely than not, the guy in this case is a banker or ex-banker, in other words, a neophyte cheapskate.

All things said; let’s hope for the best next year. I hope this is not the “new normal” (another cool term to use nowadays). But my mama said, always beware of the “unknown unknowns”; or was it Donald Rumsfeld? And Julia Roberts and Jennifer Aniston, the high priestesses of Valentine’s Day kitsch are not getting any younger. Life sucks!!

Once upon a beach: Trikora, Indonesia

A hut stands in front of the sea, perched rather tensely on top of a few stilts that were once branches. It appears as if it could at any moment decide to head down for a swim. The waves, rather impatient and angry, keep calling at it on behalf of the sea. Their impatience seems rather foolish given that they have been waiting for years. A fallen coconut and an empty glass bottle listens to the call and head down rolling to an unknown bottom. A bleached fallen tree trunk gets drenched every few seconds during the high tide. Does it know that it will never get back its leaves and roots? For now, it has been colonized by a few sympathetic almond shaped snails. The mother breeze that came from the horizon, the point where the sea drew a faint blue line below the sky, lets its offspring keep chasing each other playfully like a bunch of naughty siblings. The colors everywhere are in strong hues, but seen together, is magic. The striking blue of the sky, the patches of blue of the ocean in different shades, the white glaring sand, the bleached hut, the golden tipped grassland by the shore and a few plants with pink and white flowers; together they create a whimsical window to the universe. This is Trikora, 41 km from the port of Tanjung Pinang, in the island of Bintan, Indonesia.
There’s not much meaningful to do but to keep looking at the mosquito net, counting the number of places from which sunlight is pouring in to the hut. Will it rain later? The sound of the waves distracts us and all important considerations dissolve into a state of numbness. A swallow keeps flying low; several small purple snails have been washed ashore. A bunch of local children arrive and gang up on the sea. They throw stones on the water and run back every time the sea gives them a chase. Lobo, the person managing this place, is laughing every time we speak, a few laughs before we finish our sentences and few laughs after. I have a feeling that he knows the meaning of life. One of the two dogs gets friendly with us; his tail moving like a car wiper. He looks at us with kind eyes, wondering if we would consider giving him some leftovers. He knows the meaning of life too. His mother is too bored to be involved in all this and keeps enjoying her rest by the shade. Two white butterflies are scanning this patch of land for some sweetness. A lizard dashes by, with all seriousness as if it was crossing a minefield. Its tail is still visible from the bush where it is hiding now. Across the road, a wedding is taking place. Some amateur singer is unleashing her voice over a 1960’s megaphone on the guests who have occupied a few plastic chairs. The children there are having the most fun as they climb a coconut tree only to be pulled down soon by others and this circle of life continues all day.
As night falls, the stars appear one by one begging us to trust them instead of others for directions. Their glory is soon over as a big fat moon lumbers up from the sea. The breeze is getting cold and a group of people have set up a bonfire. The sounds of the waves sing us to sleep. As the day breaks, it’s time to go back. The dogs keep looking at our van. They will stay back at this place stuck in amber.

P.S. More pictures of Trikora here

China Diaries: Liaoning Province

Winters in North-eastern China are famed for their severity and places at latitude similar to Milan or Nice can experience temperatures of -20 C. But unlike the winters in lands further north, the winter skies in North-Eastern China are a delightful bowl of blue. And given the flat Iowa like landscape characteristic of this part of China, this blue bowl is rather immense. In the cold, the murky water rushing out of a municipal drainage pipe has frozen into a fat elephant trunk. The vegetation in these flat plains and diminutive hills turn into brown fur. The branches of trees, finally free from their showy leaves, get to display their full beauty as they sew the blue sky in abstract embroidered patterns.
We are in Liaoning province, at the town of Diao Bing Shan, and it’s the time of the Chinese New Year when Chinese people compete with wildebeests to get the top crown for animal migrations as they rush back to their hometowns from anywhere in the world. Fire crackers boom all day, some loud enough to raise an alarm in American spy planes. The lights are on inside most cube-like apartments, and from top to bottom, I can see families around the dining table. Some are devouring an impossible number of dishes, some have been playing mahjong since daybreak, and some are just watching TV from daybreak as well. I spot a naked man in one of the houses, watching TV, the windows of his house adorned with psychedelic blinking lights, almost begging for attention. He must have forgotten to put back clothes on while changing, for it’s the best time of the year to watch TV. Who can resist the whole season of China got talent, China Brave, Perfect Match, and the very unique day long comparisons of military arsenals of China and its competing countries, all delivered with gusto?
Out in the streets, an old man takes a big fat confident pig out for a stroll while innocent looking dogs play around right in front of a Korean dog meat restaurant. Friendly dogs are everywhere, a big one is so happy to be out in the open that he leaps on to each and every stranger. His master tells us, “Dog is a man’s best friend.” I felt like answering back, “A friend in need is a friend indeed”. As with most places with a history of communism, the small towns here have giant squares. At nights several groups of old people occupy this space to dance. Every other street has a gilded building housing a KTV. Most have giant idols of fortune gods inside. At such places, stay away from the English song collection which is rather quirky and when you select Pink Floyd’s “Wish you were here”, you are most likely to get some Michael Bolton song. We visit a steamboat restaurant where the food tastes great but the hot plates in the best tables are too far away from the seats; forcing customers to first sit there and then ask the waiters to help them shift all their millions of cutlery to another table. During the day, the main streets are inevitably fragrant from the smells of someone grilling sweet potatoes next to someone grilling kebab meat brushed with delightful spices. Around them are hawkers selling frozen pears and “Tang Hu Lu”, frozen sticks of caramelized plums, dates and grapes.
A few days later, we head for Shenyang, ‘the’ big city of province. At Shenyang city, the economic power of China is in full display with an abundance of gaudy shop fronts. And at every street corner, you can find a shop selling sticks caramelized plums. All of them are inevitable playing the same song round the clock, the one celebrating the glorious “Tang hu lu”, or caramelized plums, “Tang hu lu Hao Che…”
Shenyang is also home to the UNESCO heritage sites, the Palaces and tombs that are in distinct Manchu style, built before the dynasty moved on to Beijing to rule all of China. The most striking aspect of these pleasant compounds is their symmetry. One could jolly well enter these premises, keep walking to left and get out of the back door without bothering to see what was on the right. Just that there is no back door. Now, these historical sites serve as pleasant grounds for leisurely strolls that can be spent watching middle aged men showing off their twirls in the skating ring and older folks walking around with radios blaring out loud music from their pockets. Some attempts have been made to educate a foreign tourist about the site but don’t be shocked if one of the Buddha’s has been named as Wikipedia. Do stop by him to ask for favors when you visit the site. He is the one next to Buddha Mahavairocana.
At a restaurant selling local food, the owner, the cook, and the lady assistant, flood us with all sorts of questions. They bet their lives on the taste of everything they serve us. I don’t find them that delicious but keep quite none the less to save their lives. The owner asks us repeatedly to take picture of a banner he has put up that read “I am for everyone”. He lets us know that it could also be read as “Everyone for me”. We come across Luo Xi, China’s World Famous Soccer Fan. He makes us calligraphy artworks celebrating this chance encounter of people from different cultures. He also gives me a teddy bear like contraption with the hope that China and India will never go to war again.
At Shenyang station, a mute lady helps us with directions with gentle gestures. And a round of applause please for Shenyang airport, for which other airport has a counter only for passengers who have arrived late for their flights?
One day, we head for the nearby villages in the area named rather quirkily as the Chai Hu Tourism and Vocational Region. The villages are a monotone of beige and bricks, all of whose fronts have been painted in blue by some recent government dictates. There is occasional snow on the dusty light brown ground. Fat donkeys keep munching contentedly while wooly cows keep crossing roads every now and then. Chickens are fat and busy, big tailed black birds fly around from one leafless branch to another to keep themselves warm. The Shang Tun reservoir in this area is fully frozen and their broken glass style cracks make simple geometrical patterns. We start remembering our high school trigonometry but soon get distracted by the sight of numerous the air bubbles trapped below, a journey that for them should have taken seconds, now caught in a four month delay owing to technical reasons.
One day, we join a group tour to the ski town of Benxi. I am rather privileged to join one of these China group tours which have intrigued people all over the world. Inside a China group tour, there is impatience everywhere; someone is lost, someone is accusing another person of sitting at a wrong place, someone’s child is crying his heart out, someone is irritated at the song being played in the bus, and leading them from the front, is the man with the utmost courage and patience, the hapless tour guide, who should be profiled on these Chinese military shows, for his heroism, with the tour agency flag held aloft high, present an obvious military advantage.
This being the land with the highest population, the crush of the billion people is evident everywhere. At every place of some interest, a supermarket, a ski rental, or a gaming place, there is always a mad rush. The most menacing are the puffy apple-cheeked toddlers who can push adults triple their size out of the way with mighty ease in their rush for the nearest vacant game spot. Even peeing in public toilets can be a challenge as men can suddenly squeeze in around you if there is an inch of space by the urinal to stick out their wares. A few words must be said about the infamous public toilets of China, whose legendary filth have prevented even the most jaded traveler from considering a trip to this wonderful land. Well, there are the luminaries as there are the rascals, but most of them are suitable enough to provide the right direction to the not so glorious materials that come out of our bodies.
But while the people are constantly rushing and jostling, they are extremely warm towards foreigners. And a billion plus people also mean a billion plus curiosities. Inquisitiveness is everywhere, where do you come from, do you like China, and did you have a good impression of China? Strangers inevitably smile and nod, often wishing me a happy stay. Many address me as the Japanese for to them every foreigner is Japanese. And more often than not, there is a small talk around the great Chinese obsession, the myth and the corresponding TV soap “Journey to the West” and its linkages to India.

P.S. For pictures of Liaoning province, China, please click here

Journey to the east: Japan

Dazzling bustling Tokyo, where people walk can walk slower than the slowest snails because of the human traffic, where pregnant women are as endangered as the dodo, where old couples throw crumbs of bread on giant lotus leaves to take a snap of the thus attracted sparrow, and where in the sleazy neon districts Kabukicho, the red light area, even ladies will never tire of choices for the boys available range from leafy-haired anime look alikes to lovable mustached fat uncles with puppies. In this end of the world corner, an African man comes up to me asking if I would be keen for a night with “Shilpa”, an Indian actress look alike. An on the other end of this same world, they are the nicest people I have met. There is a gentleness and respectful concern about everything, from the numerous greetings of the restaurant staff, the reading glasses kept in abundance next to immigration forms, posters asking people with backpacks to be careful about those behind them, to the prevailing local practice of almost never using a mobile phone in public places, to the extent that it perhaps erases the utility of the mobile phone as a talking tool; something to be only looked at intensely and swiped with fingers vigorously.
During our stay we always stay at Japanese style places with shared bathrooms, tatami floors, rice pillows and gentle air conditioning. At Tokyo’s Taito Ryokan, the hotel owner Saito, a thirty something man, with an avuncular feel about him; someone who reminds one of childhood when one follows a knows-more-than-me older person for tiny adventures. Saito is a brave man for he has maintained his sanity while listening to noises of love making in all languages that drive away ghosts from the paper-thin hotel walls.
One evening is spent at an unassuming Onsen, or public bath hidden in some dark alley of Asakusa, the old town. A great national obsession in Japan, the sight of naked men in all waist sizes moving over with ant like agility from one water tank to another, is rather peculiar. Most of them have a small towel around the G Spot while the more stingy or gutsy ones, depending on how you look at it, just grab the entire prop in one hand during such tank swaps, all in the name of public decency. The white towel is usually then placed on top of the head when our bodies go under water, making us all feel like a new species of white-back turtles. Famous for their trim bellies and long lives, the Japanese have made up for the small potions in their own diet by feeding their animals with vengeance and the cats and crows of Japan are the fattest I have seen in the course of my revolutions around the sun.
Sights of children and pregnant women are very rare indeed in this mythical land of declining population and as such the occasional marriages at the temples are greeted with much attention by photographers, most unknown to the bride and groom. Shinto religion seems rather practical and worldly wise that instead of stressing a lot on how life evolved and how many days god rested, focuses on factory scale production of charms to ensure good exams, fine health, strong relationship and weakened enemies, the sales pitch delivered gracefully by the resident monk.
Our next stop is climbing Mount fuji on the last day of the official climbing season. The best way to see Mt Fuji is to look at its postcard and so it was during our visit as well as the angels of rain and clouds decide to hug the mountain all the three days we were in its vicinity. None the less, we headed for its peak braving the coming typhoon through an all night rain drenched trek that brought us in touch with several struggling climbers, some pledging that they would never come back in this life and in their next life as well, while some lay down on the rocks to catch a few minutes of wet dreams. The huts at the few base stations on the way to the summit seemed especially cruel as we could only look through inside the glass doors people reveling in a heavenly dry place, free from rain and cold winds, and a wooden bench to rest bums on, a glass of supremely overpriced steaming drink in their hands, Paradiso. As an aside, the owners of these stores are unusually keen to get your money as soon as possible, perhaps concerned that if collected after serving; the money may turn out to be too wet to be of any use. These shop owners have also come with the supreme innovation; they will stamp on your passport with a seal saying you have been on Mt Fuji, all for a mere 200 Yen.
And it makes sense to go to toilets at lower altitudes because as you ascend up the mountain, the rates for toilet go up to an atrocious 300 Yen at the summit. They also have a smart way of dealing with yellow stained toilets with notices announcing, “Don’t be put off, this is a bio-toilet, it is supposed to be like this.”The summit has the feel of a rural bus stop with lots of activity amidst run-down looking shops as hundreds of climbers increase their activity levels while taking puffs of compressed oxygen and menthol vapours, having finally reached the top.
By the way, never believe distance markings in any mountains, for there meters easily seem like kilometers while kilometers convert themselves into miles. And another piece of advice, always look at the faces of those climbing up, while you are climbing down, for it gives you a kick like nothing. On the way down, a bunch of university graduates go out of their way to help us asking us to follow them to make sure that we don’t get lost in the mountain. They offer us their oxygen flasks, their food, and their jackets to make sure we are comfortable. But after they take two wrong turns, rather impossibly, and despite our suggestions to go the correct way, we pretend craving for instant noodles as an excuse to part with these well-wishing if a little confused gentleman. I remained worried for a few days after that if the group did eventually manage to come down.
Back at the foot in the village of Kawaguchiko, the hills around Mt Fuji are lush green, perhaps with envy, at why a barren dormant mountain gets so much celebrity.
Our next stop is Nikko, where the density of temples with their honey voiced priests cum charms salesman would put Starbucks to shame. Nikko is also a giant complex full of wishes, wishes tied to trees, wishes dropped in a drop-box, wishes written in ribbons floating around in the breeze, wishes, wishes, wishes, all yearning to break free. I take particular interest in one temple, the Rinnoji temple, which is divided into sections for heaven, humans and hell, with the human section having a sign-board at its entrance saying “Off-Limits”; I am sure a bird or an ant could cross over. Later at night, while we head back to hotel after dinner, we notice that a Wanted poster has been made rather comical with people drawing horns, moustaches and other funny icons on the faces of the crime suspects.
A final word on lunch boxes, an integral part of life in Japan. There’s something rather magical about these endearing boxes and they give you a feeling that all the meanings of life have been shrink wrapped and presented to you in the form of that box; of course in a daunting range of varieties.
P.S. Pictures of Japan visit at this link

Low season at Krabi

This is low season in Krabi, with unpredictable rains, choppy seas, and cheaper hotels. None the less, there is enough bargain hunters in this world of 6 billion people, and at monkey bay, the resident monkeys are outnumbered by a huge margin by non-resident hairless Asian and Caucasian tourists. On water, there are more snorkelers floating around in colorful life jackets, with their baby elephant nostrils held high in happiness, than the fish underneath. So we try to bribe the fish with someone’s leftover bread and they oblige in hundreds with their gentle bites.

In order to truly experience low season, we spend a day at the Phanom Bencha Mountain resort, with pictures at the reception of cobras and pythons that had been seen within the resort, a sure shot way of not scaring away any tourists from staying there. If you don’t get fussy about this lack of formal management training of the owner of this resort, this is a lovely and tranquil place with its few bright colored bungalows aesthetically placed along the hill covered with beautiful fruit-laden trees. As we walked along the layered stream, bamboo trees put up an orchestra as they lazily bent to the gutsy wind. Here, the geckos haven’t learnt to keep down their stupid sounding calls. Rows of rubber trees surround the place, one bucket fixed to each to collect their milky pee. A white puppy with baby doll hair can’t contain his happiness at seeing us strangers and lick us extensively like a gourmet ice cream. The lovely lady at the restaurant giggles whenever we order something and we wonder whether we made the best or the worst choice. At night, the Milky Way makes us wonder why the sky was so stingy to shine only a few hundred billion stars. We spend the night playing chess, the white pieces carved in imitation of Caucasian invaders with white old beards and the black ones resembling young American Indians.

Back at town, we resist the temptation to take the bus to some bus stop named Ao Nang Gastropod. At Bamboo Island, it seems like the earth is returning back raindrops to the sky as thousands of grasshoppers jump from their homely grass heads when we tresspass their private property. At Railay Beach, upscale resorts share space with a big cave housing ashrine for many wooden penises, some human like, some that could put a Right Whale to shame. The femaletourists gather around it, praying silently for world peace. Nearby, the trip to a hidden lagoon squeezes out all the adrenalin with its steep rock climbing, offering a beautiful lagoon surrounded by limestone karsts as the reward of persistence. And a few words must be mentioned for these limestone karsts, the main reason why people come to Krabi. Since they can’t match the glory of Everest or Kilimanjaro, these proud karsts avoid the irrelevance of simple hills by coming in coming shapes, some like a chicken’s head, some resembling a melting ice cream cone. While some needlessly jut out from the sea, others form glorious stalactites and stalagmites to get some personality of their own.

At the rather small night food market in Krabi town, a long-haired uncle explains the items on the menu by indicating his own body parts. The oxtail soup is well under understood as he pats his own ass. The ox penises with their scrotums cut into half obviously need no such explanation. At the next stall, the old couple running the show has specialized in different skills after a great battle of ideas. So the uncle makes small rolls filled with yam or coconut jam while the aunty makes small pancakes filled with the same stuffing. They work in delicate movements and probably have a daily contest between themselves about who is more popular. In this war of Pancakes vs Rolls, rolls were winning that day, as far as we know.

Sex

Things that have sex –
Shoes
Clothes
Watches
Hostels
Sports contests

Things that don’t have sex –
Bandages
Food
Homes
Immigration counters
Graves

Leaked report from an excavation

From site number 2457
More fossils and tools
From three million years before
The species we named Fimupukhara,
Their brain cavities much smaller than ours
But they are very strange

The females, we knew it from their hip width
Their right arms all bent at the elbow by eighty four degrees
Perhaps from carrying huge bags we found next to these bones;

Lots of plastic bags in beautiful colors
Sent to lab, need to examine them in detail;

We found gold teeth and plastic penises
Signs of a sub-species that was evolving;

But then the species became extinct, almost all of a sudden
We searched for meteor falls and other possible causes,
And the most recent bones were all of older individuals
How could this be possible?
But all analysis points to this
Seems they all just refused to have babies

Our government stopped our research
And placed a gag order on us
Out of fear for our own species

Language

If I could create
My own language
Speeches would be called lies
Lies, habits
Habits would be called diseases
Diseases would be named after flowers
Flowers, after seasons
Seasons would be named after hours
Hours, after moods
Moods would be named after songs
And songs, after children
And daughters would be named after male gods and holy men

An abandoned slipper

An abandoned slipper
Once worn by a cold lady
Lies in the busy streets
Pointing somewhere

Where all has it been
Where did it last want to go

It will soon rest in a bin
Order prevails in society

Weekend mornings in Singapore

Weekend mornings, just when the sun, out of habit, looks at the grey behind the blanket of buildings, are special in Singapore. The manicured lawns become a golden green while the heat is yet to wake up. Much of the city forgets its usual crazy rush to get out of the vast and lonely openness of their small homes to find a place inside the cosy wombs of buses, trains and cars. People shed those business attires designed by designers who failed their geography classes and assumed that the tropics were a part of Europe. There is a gentle breeze of informality in the air, as if suffocated souls have been able to peek from buttoned collars and are enjoying this temporary respite in a dignified manner. As the sound of high heels take rest, people walk gently to the nearest food courts for a leisurely breakfast, giving way to a few perambulators, loaded with babies and grocery bags. Maids are already talking loud and fast on the phone to make most of their precious free moments away from their employer’s homes. They have the most to share about their lives. Only the newspaper stalls, run by old ladies, are busier than usual, for it’s hard to resist the thickness of the weekend newspaper. The cats have already lined up along the walkways at their usual places, waiting for those who come to feed them out of charity. The pet dogs are also out in large numbers, looking for someone from the opposite sex of the same breed, in the hope of firing their imaginations later at night in their pampered yet solitary homes. The wilderness of the city, the pigeons and crows, roam around in pride, as if human civilization was their plan.

Dead people are queuing up

Dead people are queuing up everywhere.

Some of the famous dead are queuing up in front of public buildings. They are queuing up in front of airports, toll gates, and park entrances. They are queuing up with the hope of these places being named after them.

Some of the not so famous dead are also queuing up. They look the most hassled. They keep shifting from one queue to another. First they join the queue of their ancestors in front of their homes, then they join the queue of their dead colleagues and friends in front of their workplaces, and finally in desperation, they queue up in front of mortgage loan counters. Everywhere they go, they realize that they are fading away from memories of the living as the forces of irrelevance seek to scatter them away in the name of maintaining order in living minds. They are howling.

The other famous and not so famous dead who are sensible are also queuing up. They are queuing up in front of trees far from the places with their traces. They seek a place in these trees free from hope, dejection, and betrayal. And there are not many such trees.

Tales from Bangkok

Hi, I am the hippie dog at the main pier at Chaopraya River. I believe in free love. Sometimes I pretend to smoke with a cigarette in between my teeth. It’s all about image these days, hyperrealism as Baudrillard said. I am a hit with donors for their small change. But I think these guys who put up that donation box with my pictures don’t spend all the collected money on me.

Sabaidee, we are the pigeon gang at Lumpini Park. It’s a nice place with our favorites, trees, people and tall buildings nearby. Hail Walter Gropius, he made our life easy. We have a small problem though. We are only fed bread crumbs and we are bored. We envy these monitor lizards around here who can eat the fat fish from the lake. We tried talking to this person who sells bread crumbs to the visitors to also offer some meat; but he didn’t understand us. And we have to oblige all visitors who offer us these crumbs for as people say, Good times don’t last. Visitors may think that we are a greedy bunch snatching food from one another. It’s not like that; we just like to put up a show to entertain you all.

Hi, I am a fish near the Damnoen Saduk floating market. Every day, when the market opens, we find it hard to swim with so many small boats around. People who look different from the locals keep taking pictures constantly. I am quite photogenic too, but it’s risky to show up then. But I like the whole atmosphere at those times; the ladies rowing the boats with their colorful clothes; the gentle currents created by the rows that tickle my skin; the cool shade from the sun, and the smell of grilled chicken, fresh fruits, and pancakes.

Hi, I am the blind singer at Chatuchak market, the largest market in the world. My wife carries me around the small alleys in the market and I still get overwhelmed by the smell of goods there. There’s a guy there called Punk who, I heard, dresses up so strangely with lots of jewelry and a fake alligator around his neck. There’s a Johny Depp look alike as well who sells Buddhist trinkets. I don’t know how Johny Depp looks like; apparently his eyes are made up like a girl’s. It gets crazy towards Sunday evening when shoppers hunt for the closing deals like swarms of sharks. No one has time for my songs then.

Hi, I am a fly who lives near one of the little restaurants by the roadside near Ari station. Bangkok streets have been rated as the topmost destination for flies in all our tourist magazines for the tenth year running. There’s such variety that many flies have come here all the way from Norway. Their food is very cheap, but they make sure to decorate well the stuff they serve. I know it for I have also eaten at restaurants run by Michelin starred chefs. I love it when the two tourists come here and ask for spicy food, there’s good chance they can’t finish it. If they see me, they always wave at me, I don’t mind it for it can get quite hot in Bangkok.

Hi, I am the tree whose roots surround the head of the Buddha in Ayutthaya. You must have seen the picture of my roots. Unfortunately, no one takes pictures of my leaves. It’s as if no one would care if one day I died and my leaves fell off. That makes me sad. The other trees smirk at me. They are just jealous. I feel lonely. I want a normal life. This Buddha is such a burden. And he keeps smiling. Go, stay in a proper temple.

P.S. Pictures of Bangkok and its surrounding areas can be found here.

An ode to Mercedes Sosa

I always wanted to sing out loud
Mercedes Sosa’s cry
Solo le pido de Dios
But how could I plead to Dios

An imagery of anger had been created
For myself
The righteous messiah clone
Was it for my sake or the cherished concepts?
Who was the benefactor?

My journeys to the lands of broken backs
My scornful look at travelers from promised lands
Motherfuckers all, with bazooka cameras
While the broken backs raised their heads like fish
To grab the few dollars thrown at
By me, the only hero in my own world
What peace I was living those days

Why do houses with their windows closed,
Become historical
Sosa died the year before

But sometimes buses stop near ruining towers
Unloading its rogue travelers
One of them took the room where Sosa lived

With more eyes to see,
The windows had to be opened
Pains of all were visible naked
Miseries too individual for Gramsci to ponder
But too immense for Martha’s Neighborhood Clinic

The doves broke off the chains
That were light but one too many
Finally, I could sing Solo le pido de Dios
For my plead was to myself

A night by the sea

As the lights went off
Their burns began to heal;
In the gentle breeze
The leaves caressed each other;
The water droplet
Vapored, free from its earthly bounds;
The dust particle
Found a home, its tormented journey over;
And you gently held my forsaken hand.

Volcanic escape: Trip to East Java

It was supposed to be an arduous trip with the promise of daily wake-ups at 3AM to catch the sunrise. For we tourists love sunrise. But I coped well by turning my clocks forward, by a few hours and a good number of years. Every night, I would sleep by 8PM and wake up the next morning by 3; just like any man would do in his 80s. And early next day, I was scaling mountains in the dark, a stupid looking light fitted to my head, and my mind still groggy at the pointlessness of it all.
But once at the viewing point, it seemed worth a L’Oreal wash later. And since the essence of any writing is to explain things in analogies instead of saying it directly, let me tell you that the erupting volcano looked as if the sky was developing cancerous cells by the minute, as if the earth was sputtering out its pus from its giant boil, as if Mount Bromo had a bad stomach after many years of healthy lifestyle. And a few lovestruck tourists took this dust filled opportunity to kiss and renew their vows. A trek around the villages surrounding Bromo promised world’s most amazing views, as the owner at my guesthouse explained in his broken English. But on my way back, I hit the path of the rain of dust. Sand was falling from the sky in thick drops and the entire surrounding was an eerie grey from the ash and sand. It seemed like Independence Day and I was desperately in need for an American President. My Arabic veil-like dress was so covered in sand that CNN would have easily mistaken me for a rescued Chinese miner. “Oh, another mine accident in China, darn the Chinese, the West is the Best.” None the less, the farmers I met on the way, were delighted to see me in my funny suit, and asked me all the details that mattered to them: where I come from and if I was liking it here. Later I came to know that they were having a miserable time, replanting saplings every day, only to see them destroyed by the ash when they woke up next morning.
I left them with their misfortune and headed to Kalau Ijen, another volcano that promised the most spectacular and apocalyptic blue lake in the world (source: tour pamphlets). The long car ride was rather refreshing along the coastal road of North Java, wit lush green rice fields by the side. And my driver made a point to get me photographed along with any idle looking person on the way. His excitement kept the spirits high as he asked me whether anything on sight could be found in India as well and at what price: from bananas, to gasoline, to drivers on hire. At our resting place at the village near Ijen, I spent a few hours in silence stuck with another lovestruck couple in the smallest and cheapest hot spring pool. After dinner, I was attracted to the booming disco beats coming from the market and there I was in front of the village cinema, a small shack where a couple was playing music videos on request and for a small fee. The volume was over the top and a few bearded men at the nearby mosque were struggling to remain somber in response to this all-out assault. The shack was the centre of all attention and happiness in the village that night and after exchanging a few high fives with the local children and sharing all important details about me, I collapsed, old man, style, waiting for the next insane wake-up.
Ijen is indeed a beautiful place, a lovely trek through lush green hills, eventually exposing a devastated landscape with a sulfur mines, geothermal smoke vents and a turquoise lake in between it all. But Ijen is above all, a very poignant pace, where poor miners, young and old, dig through chucks of sulfur, standing right in front of the smoke, and then carry upto 80kgs of the load up the craters rim and then down for a distance of 3km. Some of them moan on the way up, some plead for a cigarette and some just take a break and ask with a smile for their photographs to be taken. Their backs have deep black marks from the load and they seek to keep their spirits high cracking jokes among themselves.
The way back to Surabaya is again entertaining, courtesy my driver who was treating every moment like a rollercoaster ride. I was mostly talking to him in Bahasa Indonesia, but sometimes I was asking the wrong questions. Once I kept on asking him “Why” I should go to Surabaya airport, instead of “When”. But my driver responded in kind, practicing his broken English with me, and when I went to his home to take a short break, he introduced his wife to me as “Your wife”. Equally charming were the names of Indonesian towns like Probollingo, Sitobondo, and Bondowoso that passed by.

P.S. Pictures of East Java can be found in this link

Myanmar Travels: Bagan

For the last leg of my journey, I headed to Bagan. Bagan is the mesmerizing assortment of temples, and more temples, and some more temples, and just a little bit more temples. It is the result of some crazy architectural vision, an attempt to pierce the sky with thousands of needles, 13,000 at one time, probably around 2000 presently. The temples were built during the 11th and 12th century and the complex was subsequently sacked by the Mongols. While the temples are not spectacular, it is the audacity of numbers that mesmerizes the visitor, especially when viewing from the top. As Stalin said, Quantity has a Quality of its own.
When I reached this sleepy town, the taxi driver having patiently shown me around a few Lonely Planet guesthouses, dropped me at Inn-Wa, a 8$ a night hotel with air-conditioning, towels, hot water and private bathroom. The place, as seems typical of Myanmar, was run by a mama-sita who was in control of everything. As I had arrived at evening, there was not much to do to kill time besides having dinner. I chanced upon a restaurant called “Wonderfully Tasty” along a street called “Restaurant Row” that was lined with about twenty open air restaurants with twinkling lights and candles. Wonderfully Tasty’s sales pitch was that “all our vegetables are washed in mineral water” and who can resist that?
Early next day, I headed to the temple complex with a grandfather bicycle and soon the sandy trails gripped my tires like an Amazon snake. As real snakes slithered by, I realize why 3 falls mean “Game Over” in Need for Speed. As there are many more temples than tourists, visiting the lesser known ones can be delightful as you can soak in the ancient atmosphere. One does feel surprised at the audacity of the builders of the smaller temples. Were they hoping that 1000 years later, the world will be full of Schumpeter clones touting “small is beautiful”?
Each temple has a few hawkers, quietly hoping to sell their wares. The sand painters are the most common. With very lovable smiles, they all try to explain how their style is so much more innovative than the others even though their paintings all look the same. The hawkers are not very numerate and often increase the price by mistake when I bargain for discounts. Some even ask me for my t-shirt instead of any payment. At one temple, a few ladies from all ages grab my bike, insisting that I negotiate for the pajamas they were selling. When I refuse a thousand times, they let me go with sad eyes. After some introspection, I head back to them to buy the pajamas just to lift their spirits and I am greeted with wild applause and genuine relief. It’s their first sale after 3 days, a sum of $3 for a family of five.
After a long day of cycling, I decided to have some deep fried snacks at a dilapidated shack. The matriarch of the shop took me for a famished person as I finished the whole flask of complementary tea to rehydrate and greedily munched down the snacks. She took pity and offered me some boiled peanuts mixed with salt, lemon and a piece of omelet. The lady and her daughter laughed whole heartedly as I gulped down the whole thing. They probably just intended me to taste what was their meal. This probably was my happiest moment in Myanmar as I hoped that I had given some occasion for humor for my desperately poor hosts.
As dusk approaches, the tourists herd towards the few odd temples that have viewing platforms for tourists love sunsets. I headed the other way imagining the dread if I was to cycle through this Dante trail in the dark. The cattle are also heading back and at all crossing points, the right of way belongs to the cattle with their jovial masters. While most tourists travel by horse cart or vans, a few daring ones have opted for the cheap cycle option and whenever we meet, encouraging nods are exchanged with each other. The horse carts have a unique contraption in the form of a bag just behind the tail of the horse to grab all its poo. After hours of cycling, I realize my face has turned into a sand painting as well.
Next day, at the town of Nyang U where I was staying, the morning market is the centre of all activity. Among all the crowded squat shops, suddenly I spot a seven feet tall Caucasian pointing a two feet long camera at a mother holding her baby. I wish Michael Moore was there to capture this. A long row of young monks walk through the middle of the road as the faithful fill their begging bowls with rice in swift assembly line movements. As noon sets in, and tourists having left for the temples, the town yawns and young boys head indoors to watch tele-novellas. At the local book shop, the young girl managing the shop is embarrassed and smiles shyly with her braced teeth when I complain that the 20$ she is charging for three old dilapidated Russian books is atrocious. At sunset, I head for the Ayeyarwaddy River. And I encounter that primeval river scene, ladies bathing, fisherman tugging in their nets, kids splashing, and the sun retreating behind this ancient land, sprinkling the great horizon with dazzling colors, its parting gift to mankind.

P.S. Pictures of Myanmar can be found in this link

Myanmar travels: Inle Lake

Inle Lake is a luscious cake with many layers of delicious flavours; first the big blue sky, then the olive hills at the background, then a thick layer of soft green floating plantations, and finally the deep blue water nonchalantly reflecting all these as if it has better wonders inside itself. Along the lake, one comes across the Inthein village with the 1054 alligator-snout shaped stupas, bustling weekly markets, jumping cat monasteries, numerous traditional workshops, and fishermen rowing with their legs. The approach to the ancient stupas at Inthein probably houses the largest supermarkets for antiques and handicrafts in the world, but no one seemed to be buying anything. The shopkeepers therefore keep playing cards listening to heavy metal songs. The jumping cat monastery is probably the only place where cats have been domesticated by men. Whenever there are a decent group of tourists, the monks there make fat cats jump through rings. At some workshops, Padaung women with their famous ringed long necks are kept as zoo species, their sad boring eyes seeming to have already said farewell to life. At the week market, what caught my eye were the lady who was selling just a small bag full of salt and another young girl selling a small collection of western medicines, all splayed on the grass. The Myanmar vendors have an interesting way of bargaining with the tourists as they smilingly say “Me no lucky” meaning the price the tourist is suggesting is too low and “Me only lucky” when the deal is sealed meaning she has barely made a profit but it’s OK.

As I took the boat ride, I felt like a king contemplating his kingdom because of the large chair with cushions on which I had to sit that was placed at the very centre of a long boat. Whenever the boat approached any of the stilted houses, kids left everything else they were doing to give me a wave. I suppose foreigners are like pampered toys for Myanmar children who they feel obliged to take note of.

I spend a few days cycling and hiking around the lake. The roads are the bumpies I have encountered and whenever I hit a relatively flat stretch, I understand what paradise means. The guides for hiking take me to PaO villages along the hills surrounding the lake and as we cook a meal in one of the local houses, the awkward silence tells how hard breaking human barriers can be. All the same, my guide was the only person I could have an intelligent conversation with during my stay in Myanmar and he was as much interested in learning about other places and cultures I had visited.

Back in the main town of Nyaungshwe, the restaurants treat their solitary customers like long lost offspring while the street side stalls bustle with the locals. The delights include spicy vegetarian noodles (Shan style), garlic laden tomato salads, spicy deep fried beancurd, omelet curry, minced chicken stuffed pancakes, and sweet milk tea. People at Myanmar love giving receipts, and I received the most intriguing receipt as I paid for my shared taxi booking to the airport. The lady at the shop, who was earlier an English teacher, gave me a receipt saying, “I already paid this much for this, I am from Singapore, and I am staying at this hotel, and I will be waiting at this time tomorrow”, signed by me and her and then stamped. The numerous tea-shops are buzzing with happiness during the day as locals spend hours there talking, watching TV, sipping milk tea and eating deepest fried snacks. The owner lady at one such shop was keeping high everyone’s spirits by screaming the “Yo”s in Burmese rap videos she was playing on TV. The only barber shop is always empty and he spends time listening to loud Buddhist chants on the radio, waiting for those few customers who are yet to fall for the trendy North Asian hairstyles so popular among the locales here.

A few words must be said about the riotous dogs of this friendly and humble place. These shameless horny animals care for no authority. One day I saw a couple of them loudly making love right next to a police station with their customary “May I Help You” signages as another five dogs surrounded them and started barking as if to cheer the male. And one day as I got down from my cycle to explore a pricey lakeside resort, the house dog came up silently and bit my shoe. Marx was right about the evils of private property, and much of its evil character originates from these house dogs.

The town sleeps early and by eight at night, the lights have turned off, while the earth sleeps beneath a bowl full of stars, a lonely crooner playing his guitar by one of the canals, the soft splashing of waters providing the beat.

P.S. Pictures of Myanmar at this link

What reading Neruda makes you do

Last time I saw you
So few words were said
For the ones that hurt the most
We had tired them to death

Last time I saw you
So few glances were exchanged
For the curtain of hatred
Wrapped the faces we once craved

Last time I saw you
We didn’t stop for each other
For we had already planned our journey
To our next misery

Among trillions of possibilities
Our paths crossed
And what could have been
Is too pure to imagine

But maybe we will meet
When all our pride has bled
When all our hopes have been shred
And all our wants have been dealt
When our bodies are loathsome baggage
And death seems a fortune
When our eyes can’t see
And what remain are just us

Myanmar travels: Yangon

I was relieved as soon as I passed the security counter at Singapore Airport. After all; for the next few days, no one is going to ask me the onerous, meaningless but obvious question, “Why are you going to Myanmar”? And the short flight was according to the modern convention of “thou shalt treat the person sitting next to thou as inanimate object no 2”. The glistening ultra-modern airport in Yangon was filled with Lonely Planet promises of women wearing Thanaka paste on their face and men wearing sarongs (Longi). Soon after I reached my budget hotel that like any respectable Myanmar hotel claimed out loud that it had its own electricity generator, I headed off to the iconic Shwedagon Pagoda.

The Shwedagon Paya summarizes Myanmar. Out here, you will come across the gaudiest aesthetic sense on the planet, a cancerous proliferation of Buddha idols and the friendliest people you may have ever met. While the giant gilded Stupa looks enormous from the streets, it is less imposing from up close. The spire is encrusted with diamonds in all hues; and is also home to thousands of shitting pigeons. The entire premise is filled with funky Buddha idols, many with psychedelic spinning light-discs behind their heads. Shwedagon is as much a social place as it is a religious one and has its fair share of young couples renewing their vows and kids having an intriguing session of hide and seek in its precincts. Right next to them can be seen worshippers on their knees and praying, their facing expression revealing some intense pain. A group of people have formed a chain and are cleaning the floors and stairs. A few white Buddha statues are being vigorously washed by believers hoping that their wishes would come true. At one corner, people are climbing over one another like ants to collect their portion of the free meal getting distributed. A sprinkling of foreign tourists with enormous bazooka style cameras are moving around like lions in the savanna. In the middle of all this, there is something unusually serene about the whole compound that makes even an atheist like me want to stay on and watch life unfold. As I sit down at one corner to soak in the atmosphere, a monk sitting nearby comes up and starts chatting with me. He is learning English hoping to get a foreign posting to a monastery in Singapore or Thailand. He asks me my salary and when I ask him back, he laughs saying its variable because his only source of income is donations. He also advises me to never fall in love with any girl born on Tuesday and I know I can never sympathize enough with those unfortunate girls. As the sun sets, thousands of candles are lit around the stupa as it soaks in the surrounding lights to reveal its true magnificence.

The next day is spent roaming the streets of Yangon which are teeming with life and its sounds and smells. The city has a New York style grid system with numbered roads intersected by long avenues named after Myanmar highlights. The downtown has many colonial buildings but the highlight is the climax of activities happening around the transportation hub near Sule Paya-another gilded stupa. The streets there are lined with clusters of shops catering to every human need. The outer edges have the hawkers selling meat and fish, and as you move towards the Indian section of the city, you come across the vegetable section, the food section and the clothes section. The cloth section has a small signage calling it the Fashion Boulevard, but the wares on display cater to the prevailing preference for gaudiness with an abundance of two colored shirts with the colors meeting at chest level. Sprinkled among these organized chaos of shops are hawkers selling cheap videos, which are all labeled according to their category: “Classics”, “Spiritual”, “Indian”, and the porn ones being classified as “Western Movie”. The crème de la crème of the market are the numerous sex shops which are nothing more than an Indian or Bangladeshi man selling a collection of all relevant sex products in a table of size no more than four square feet. Whatever is your inclination and belief system, with brands like MaxMan and GoodViagra, conjugal bliss seems safe for the time being in Myanmar. The markets are teeming with thousands of people, all with a seemingly complete understanding of the meaning of life. At the fruits section, aggressive hawkers shout at potential customers and almost drag them in to their shop while groups of shy nuns squeezing through the crowd struggle to make their chants for alms heard. And from time to time you see men adjusting their sarongs (longis) in a gesture not too different from male birds flaunting their feathers.

The small gulleys of the main roads are equally interesting and show some specialization with some being lined with old books while some house only umbrella shops. Only in Yangon, can you find books titled “Questions and Answers on Office Work”, “Letters and Essays of distinction Winners” and old copies of in-flight magazines. And there, all of a sudden, I see the Astrology Research Centre Office. I am not sure what empirical methods of research they deploy, but Myanmar is to Astrology what London is to global finance with astrologers of repute charging 30$ for a session and providing their verdict on recorded tapes. The streets are lined with telephone shops which are little more than a table and chair with a large umbrella and two wireless phones. These call booths, often manned by ladies, are usually without customers. So the owner ladies are the ones who can often be seen making calls using their own phones. And then there are the numerous cybercafés, always full of young girls doing video chat next to young guys watching porn.

One must mention the unique delights of the street food in cosmopolitan Yangon. On the streets you can find traditional Indian sweets which are only made in homes, Chinese desserts, countless varieties of fruits and a range of delightful pancakes. The most intriguing are the satay stalls where the vendor typically sits on a low chair next to a 3’ by 3’ platform at the centre of which is the stove. Surrounding this platform are up to 8 very small and low chairs where the young clients sit, the whole set-up resembling a séance with the satay seller as the medium. And the most innovative are the fruit sellers who deploy plastic bags filled with water to swing like a pendulum over the cut fruits to drive away the flies.

While walking is the best way to conquer these mean streets, one would need to use one of the countless varieties of transport options available if you have to move out of downtown. The most obvious are the taxis which are cheap and fairly priced without much need for bargaining. These taxis are all clunky and you can hear all the parts in motion as they ramble on. Uniquely, while Myanmar has right hand drive, the steering is also to the right of the car. The buses are usually jam packed with many travelers clinging on to the backside. The most colorful are the pedal driven rickshaws which have two low back to back seats attached to the left of the driver giving an impression of colorful tortoises giving the hair a chase. And not to be missed is the Yangon circular line, a slow train that goes through many suburbs. Realizing that I was a foreigner, I was being given special treatment onboard by both the railway officials and fellow passengers to the point of being embarrassed. But it’s intriguing to see on the train a mélange of poor people living simple lives yet being happy and content. Hawkers keep boarding the train selling everything from betel leaves, boiled eggs, tea, cold water and the delightful buns topped with condensed milk. The favorite targets of these hawkers are the males who have young girls accompanying them. The passengers all keep joking and talking to each other and give me a smiling nod every now and then. At the Danyingan station, that has a massive village market; lots of vegetable sellers get down, each helping the other to get their huge load of vegetables off the train. And a few stations letter, a group of kids get on board. They are taking potted flower plants for sale to the city and as they place their loads on the centre of the births, we have a delightful garden inside our train.

P.S. Next post on Inle lake in Myanmar; pictures of Myanmar can be found in this link

The gift of Magi returns

2 months before Christmas

Frank: I wish I was the first one in office to have an iPad
Stella: I want to go to Fiji; the pics look real nice

1 month before Christmas:
Frank: Dearest, I have a surprise for you; I booked the hotels for Fiji for Christmas, will book the flights tonight
Stella: Realllyyyy; you are so wonderful; I have a surprise of my own for you; I bought an iPad for you
Frank: Thats so awesome; but it's a pity; I will not go for the company offsite because we are going Fiji that time; wish I could have shown it to my peers then. But never mind, let me book the tickets using our credit card points.
Stella: Oh honey, that's so sad; by the way, I used up most of the credit card points to buy the iPad
Frank: Oh well; doesn't matter, I love you
Stella: We are such an wonderful couple; I love you two

Thoughts during a public transport ride

The capitalist corporate cloud cover insulates us all from the sufferings worse than ours by constantly attacking our self-esteem and ego with milestones and stretch performance standard, thus converting the mundane into a glorified breathtaking spiral race.

Isn’t travelling essentially a constant search for a dipstick experience of the un-spoilt, pristine world, untouched by modern (western) civilization inhabited by simple souls, vetted by colorful travel books; in other words, a search for a zoo on a larger scale?

Is the haloed family as an institution is nothing but a slow moving whirlpool of mediocrity; parenthood is all about succumbing to the urge of evolution to reproduce and then the disgusting outsourcing of personal ambition and human potential to the next generation; suffering supportive parenting is nothing but losing a considerable control of your future to your parent’s misfortune, sloth, and prejudices.

Is charity or social work for the poor just an excuse to feel self-important in an environment where you are surrounded by people in situations worse off than you covering you with the haze of their supposed inferiority, wretchedness and indebtness?

How many times will we discuss property prices and stock indices with our friends? Will friendship exist in mute in a world of perfect information under the efficient market hypothesis?

How many days will I suffer when I become old? Which body part will be the first to develop cancer? Who will hurl at me the most insults? When will I watch my last tooth bid farewell? Which will be the first words from me not making any sense? When will it be the first time I will shit in my bed and cry?

There comes my station

The pond in my town

There I was, standing in front of the muddy pond, the one in the small town where I was born. Its water looked muddier than the soil around. The palm trees and vines of all sorts circled around it like the court pays audience to the king. The waters looked forbidding; something created a ripple at the centre; a serpent just waded by before I could catch a proper glimpse. It had been like this since I knew it, mysterious, unwelcoming, and unwanted. It is too small to attract young lovers, too ill-placed to attract the property developers. But it has its own fascination; no one knows what lies beneath. From time to time, we dip in a hook from far, and out comes a wriggling evil looking fish with demonic whiskers and strength to match a cat. These dark ugly fish only add to the pond’s mystery. Imagine Loch Ness, every inch of which has been scoured to test the hype; the chances of finding the solitary monster are much higher here. No one dares take a swim in its bubbling fetid waters but for the occasional snake that crosses it in silent respect. At few places, dark lifeless twigs can be seen rising out of the pond surface, a reminder of how unforgiving the pond can be if its boundaries are violated. The sun moves all around it every day in vain attempts to reach its depths. Once every year, the pond rises with the rains to seek out the world from a greater height. And when it goes back to its habit, we see dark slimy remains of unfamiliar weeds and half eaten fish, their eyes in a state of horror. As I stand near the pond and the memories start coming back from the deepest recess of my mind, the pond sends its first line of attack, the mosquitoes, in scores to send me back. It’s getting dark, the smell of rot and death is all around, the mosquitoes are buzzing alarms around, the heavy air is too in thrall to move, and I head back; the pond ever engraved in my mind.