WANT to make your next trip to New York unforgettable? It’s this simple: Elope.
Although it is not an idea likely to please parents who want to see decades of labor come to fruition as their child walks down the aisle, an extralong weekend in New York is perfect for getting hitched, thanks to the bargain-basement services of the Office of the City Clerk.
New York requires a 24-hour waiting (sobering-up?) period between getting a marriage license and marrying. So you can snag your license on Friday afternoon ($35) and marry on Monday morning ($25), leaving a weekend in between to frolic around the city.
Here’s the formula: X (amount you would have spent on wedding had you not eloped*) - $60 = Y (amount you can spend in New York over the weekend).
[* Presupposes access to said amount.]
The idea comes not from the devious imagination of a bachelor columnist, but from friends of a friend.
Two weekends ago, Ken Steen and Katja Heitkaemper arrived in New York from Berlin, frustrated in their efforts to pull off a formal wedding in Germany.
“This is about us,” Mr. Steen, a 36-year-old disc jockey and music producer, recalled thinking. “We should enjoy this. Let’s go somewhere we can take a memory home.”
They flew in their best man and maid of honor and their toddler, Anton, but didn’t tell their families.
Here’s how they did it.
THE MARRIAGE Marriage Central in Manhattan is in the Municipal Building (1 Centre Street, second floor). The details can be found online at www.nycmarriagebureau.com, but people still manage to mess it up.
For the license part on Friday, both of you must get there well before 3:45 p.m., when the office closes. And you need identification, and a $35 money order. (When you forget your money order, you can go the photo lab at the Duane Reade pharmacy two blocks down Chambers Street at Broadway.)
Gay couples can’t apply for a marriage license, although they can register a domestic partnership for $36. There is no apparent reason it costs a dollar more.
When Mr. Steen and Ms. Heitkaemper arrived on Monday around lunchtime, the officiant was nowhere to be seen, and at least a dozen couples were left waiting. A spokesman for the city clerk said that the wait was unusual and that there was no official break for lunch.
This time, you need a $25 money order and two witnesses, preferably ones who will not object when asked if anyone knows any reason you two should not be married. (They need IDs, too, a requirement Mr. Steen’s best man was able to get out of.)
Don’t expect romance. Or a sermon. The group was in and out of the chapel in less than two minutes. “You need more time at the counter in the airport,” Ms. Heitkaemper said.
THE RINGS Even if you’re from a diamond-engagement-ring-shunning culture like Germany’s — “We only know about that from American TV series,” Mr. Steen said — you’ll still need wedding bands. And a walk down 47th Street between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas, the Diamond District, will provide you with dozens of options. Mr. Steen and Ms. Heitkaemper found what they were looking for at Prince Jewelry, one of the sellers at 20 West 47th.
THE FUN The choices of what to do during your weekend are, of course, endless. You could go the romantic route, and plan the weekend around a trip to see “La Traviata” (on two consecutive Saturdays in November at the Metropolitan Opera). Or take in Cirque du Soleil’s latest production, “Wintuk,” at the WaMu Theater at Madison Square Garden from Nov. 1 to Jan. 6.
Our German visitors opted for some shopping, including picking up a belt with a silver star for $17 on Canal Street (which Mr. Steen wore to the wedding with an all-black outfit). But a potentially highly useful prenuptial trip is a visit to the Museum of Sex (233 Fifth Avenue, www.museumofsex.com). One exhibition, “Kink,” catalogs in visual and tactile detail an astonishing number of fetishes and behaviors you (perhaps) never imagined.
THE HOTEL Where to stay? It’s up to your budget, but a Sunday night at the Brooklyn Marriott (333 Adams Street, www.brooklynmarriott.com; doubles from $229) allows you a Monday morning stroll down one glorious aisle: the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge. (The Municipal Building is at the other end.) The night before, you can wander the Brooklyn Promenade for what is the clichéd-but-worth-it most romantic view of the city.
POST-KNOT You’ll need a place to eat lunch after, preferably within walking distance of the ceremony. One choice, for those wishing to keep with the bureaucratic theme, is the restaurant City Hall (131 Duane Street, www.cityhallnewyork.com), an elegant spot in a 19th-century landmark building that serves steaks, salads and a burger that’s 20 percent brisket meat.
Consider spending the night at the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park (2 West Street, www.ritzcarlton.com), in a $900 suite with views of both the city and the Statue of Liberty. If you look at it one way, that’s very expensive. If you look at it another way, that’ll get you about half a wedding cake.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
15/08/07 - 60 years on - whose India?
By RAMACHANDRA GUHA
Published: August 15, 2007 (NYT)
Bangalore, India
IN the last months of 1990, a property dispute sparked a series of bloody riots across India. The right-wing Bharatiya Janata Party sought to “reclaim” for Hindus the birthplace of the legendary god-king Ram, in the small northern town of Ayodhya. That meant demolishing the mosque that had been built there in the 16th century and replacing it with a spanking new temple.
Starting in September, the militant Bharatiya Janata leader Lal Krishna Advani journeyed for five weeks between Somnath and Ayodhya, making fiery speeches at towns and villages en route, denouncing the Indian government for “appeasing” the Muslims. In many places Mr. Advani visited, attacks on Muslims followed.
In New Delhi, where I then lived, Mr. Advani’s march represented a grave threat to the inclusive, plural, secular and democratic idea of India. My boyhood hero had been Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first and arguably greatest prime minister.
When India and Pakistan came into existence in 1947, exactly 60 years ago, Mr. Nehru insisted that India would not be a “Hindu Pakistan.” Three months after the partition, he wrote to the chief provincial ministers about the Muslim minority: “whatever the provocation from Pakistan and whatever the indignities and horrors inflicted on non-Muslims there, we have got to deal with this minority in a civilized manner. We must give them security and the rights of citizens in a democratic state. If we fail to do so, we shall have a festering sore which will eventually poison the whole body politic and probably destroy it.”
The Bharatiya Janata Party’s idea of India was the opposite. Their ideologues treated Muslims as potential fifth columnists. “Pakistan ya Kabristan!” (to Pakistan or the graveyard) they cried during the riots. Nonetheless, many million Muslims stayed in India; after the formation of an independent Bangladesh, in 1971, India had even more Muslim citizens than Pakistan.
Yet among my close friends in India there was not a single Muslim. The novelist Mukul Kesavan, a contemporary, has written that in his school in Delhi he never came across a Muslim name: “The only place you were sure of meeting Muslims was the movies.” Some of the finest actors, singers, composers and directors in Bombay’s film industry were Muslims. But in law, medicine, business and the upper echelons of public service, Hindus dominated. There were sprinklings of Christians and Sikhs, but very few Muslims.
As it happened, my first Muslim friend was a Pakistani I met in America. In the mid-1980s, the economist Tariq Banuri and I, both teaching at East Coast universities, were part of a colloquium on third-world development. Our bond was partly intellectual and partly linguistic, for we had grown up speaking Hindustani, that wonderful hybrid of Hindi and Urdu that was once the lingua franca of much of the Indian subcontinent. My hometown, Dehradun, and Tariq’s, Peshawar, lay at opposite ends of what was once a common cultural zone, fractured by the partition.
After I returned to India, and Tariq to Pakistan, in 1987, the antipathy between our countries meant I could not visit him. The phone lines were blocked, and the Internet had not been developed. News that trickled in from mutual friends was episodic and desultory; inevitably, we lost touch.
In the winter of 1990, Tariq began appearing in my dreams. I was always on the verge of visiting him in Islamabad, only to be thwarted by hostile immigration officials, barbed-wire fences, massed soldiers or canceled flights. That I dreamt of my friend at a time when my fellow Hindus were mounting frequent attacks on Muslims was surely not accidental.
Back in Delhi, I also came to understand (though not support) why so many Indians had favored building a Ram temple in Ayodhya. Once a center of Islamic civilization, later the center of a white man’s Raj, after 1947 Delhi had become a city of the Hindu and Sikh victims of partition. These Punjabi migrants had lost homes and businesses in that bloody summer of 1947. Starting from scratch, they had come to dominate Delhi’s commerce and social life. Yet they remained insecure; who knew when catastrophe might come again? And so they hoarded diamonds and maintained Swiss bank accounts.
They also cheated their tenants. In six years in Delhi, my wife and I had four landlords, all refugees from the Pakistani part of Punjab. All four hooked their appliances to our electricity meter, and all kept our deposits when we left.
In 1995, I finally got to visit Pakistan. I saw Tariq in Islamabad and then proceeded to Lahore, illegally, since my visa was for one city only. I met one of the last seven Hindu families in Lahore and visited the tomb of the Sikh warrior-king Ranjit Singh.
Then I went across to the majestic Badshahi Mosque, built by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb. It was Friday evening, and a large crowd of worshipers was coming out after the weekly prayers. Walking against the flow, I had to jostle my way through.
As I bumped into one worshiper, I was seized by panic. In one pocket of my kurta lay my wallet; in the other, an exquisite little statue of the Hindu god Ganesh, dancing. I am not a believer, but this was my mascot, a gift from my sister, carried whenever I was separated from my wife and little children. What if it now fell out and was seized upon by the crowd? How would that turn out — an infidel discovered in a Muslim shrine, an Indian visitor illegally in Lahore?
As a liberal and secular Hindu, I should not have been worried about being found out. But my fear was symptomatic also of the deeper failures of partition. It had been meant to solve, once and for all, the Hindu-Muslim question. But in both countries, the two communities have only grown further apart.
Despite their shared culture, cuisine and love for the game of cricket, India and Pakistan have already fought four wars. And judging by the number of troops on their borders and the missiles and nuclear weapons to back them, they seem prepared to fight a fifth.
Ramachandra Guha is the author of “India After Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy.”
Published: August 15, 2007 (NYT)
Bangalore, India
IN the last months of 1990, a property dispute sparked a series of bloody riots across India. The right-wing Bharatiya Janata Party sought to “reclaim” for Hindus the birthplace of the legendary god-king Ram, in the small northern town of Ayodhya. That meant demolishing the mosque that had been built there in the 16th century and replacing it with a spanking new temple.
Starting in September, the militant Bharatiya Janata leader Lal Krishna Advani journeyed for five weeks between Somnath and Ayodhya, making fiery speeches at towns and villages en route, denouncing the Indian government for “appeasing” the Muslims. In many places Mr. Advani visited, attacks on Muslims followed.
In New Delhi, where I then lived, Mr. Advani’s march represented a grave threat to the inclusive, plural, secular and democratic idea of India. My boyhood hero had been Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first and arguably greatest prime minister.
When India and Pakistan came into existence in 1947, exactly 60 years ago, Mr. Nehru insisted that India would not be a “Hindu Pakistan.” Three months after the partition, he wrote to the chief provincial ministers about the Muslim minority: “whatever the provocation from Pakistan and whatever the indignities and horrors inflicted on non-Muslims there, we have got to deal with this minority in a civilized manner. We must give them security and the rights of citizens in a democratic state. If we fail to do so, we shall have a festering sore which will eventually poison the whole body politic and probably destroy it.”
The Bharatiya Janata Party’s idea of India was the opposite. Their ideologues treated Muslims as potential fifth columnists. “Pakistan ya Kabristan!” (to Pakistan or the graveyard) they cried during the riots. Nonetheless, many million Muslims stayed in India; after the formation of an independent Bangladesh, in 1971, India had even more Muslim citizens than Pakistan.
Yet among my close friends in India there was not a single Muslim. The novelist Mukul Kesavan, a contemporary, has written that in his school in Delhi he never came across a Muslim name: “The only place you were sure of meeting Muslims was the movies.” Some of the finest actors, singers, composers and directors in Bombay’s film industry were Muslims. But in law, medicine, business and the upper echelons of public service, Hindus dominated. There were sprinklings of Christians and Sikhs, but very few Muslims.
As it happened, my first Muslim friend was a Pakistani I met in America. In the mid-1980s, the economist Tariq Banuri and I, both teaching at East Coast universities, were part of a colloquium on third-world development. Our bond was partly intellectual and partly linguistic, for we had grown up speaking Hindustani, that wonderful hybrid of Hindi and Urdu that was once the lingua franca of much of the Indian subcontinent. My hometown, Dehradun, and Tariq’s, Peshawar, lay at opposite ends of what was once a common cultural zone, fractured by the partition.
After I returned to India, and Tariq to Pakistan, in 1987, the antipathy between our countries meant I could not visit him. The phone lines were blocked, and the Internet had not been developed. News that trickled in from mutual friends was episodic and desultory; inevitably, we lost touch.
In the winter of 1990, Tariq began appearing in my dreams. I was always on the verge of visiting him in Islamabad, only to be thwarted by hostile immigration officials, barbed-wire fences, massed soldiers or canceled flights. That I dreamt of my friend at a time when my fellow Hindus were mounting frequent attacks on Muslims was surely not accidental.
Back in Delhi, I also came to understand (though not support) why so many Indians had favored building a Ram temple in Ayodhya. Once a center of Islamic civilization, later the center of a white man’s Raj, after 1947 Delhi had become a city of the Hindu and Sikh victims of partition. These Punjabi migrants had lost homes and businesses in that bloody summer of 1947. Starting from scratch, they had come to dominate Delhi’s commerce and social life. Yet they remained insecure; who knew when catastrophe might come again? And so they hoarded diamonds and maintained Swiss bank accounts.
They also cheated their tenants. In six years in Delhi, my wife and I had four landlords, all refugees from the Pakistani part of Punjab. All four hooked their appliances to our electricity meter, and all kept our deposits when we left.
In 1995, I finally got to visit Pakistan. I saw Tariq in Islamabad and then proceeded to Lahore, illegally, since my visa was for one city only. I met one of the last seven Hindu families in Lahore and visited the tomb of the Sikh warrior-king Ranjit Singh.
Then I went across to the majestic Badshahi Mosque, built by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb. It was Friday evening, and a large crowd of worshipers was coming out after the weekly prayers. Walking against the flow, I had to jostle my way through.
As I bumped into one worshiper, I was seized by panic. In one pocket of my kurta lay my wallet; in the other, an exquisite little statue of the Hindu god Ganesh, dancing. I am not a believer, but this was my mascot, a gift from my sister, carried whenever I was separated from my wife and little children. What if it now fell out and was seized upon by the crowd? How would that turn out — an infidel discovered in a Muslim shrine, an Indian visitor illegally in Lahore?
As a liberal and secular Hindu, I should not have been worried about being found out. But my fear was symptomatic also of the deeper failures of partition. It had been meant to solve, once and for all, the Hindu-Muslim question. But in both countries, the two communities have only grown further apart.
Despite their shared culture, cuisine and love for the game of cricket, India and Pakistan have already fought four wars. And judging by the number of troops on their borders and the missiles and nuclear weapons to back them, they seem prepared to fight a fifth.
Ramachandra Guha is the author of “India After Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy.”
14/07/08 - Happy Birthday Pakistan
A wonderful piece by a wonderful author... i read his most recent novel; and does it ring true! Misunderstandings have made the world what it is today. Your freedom fighter, Bush's terrorist.
By MOHSIN HAMID
Published: August 15, 2007 (NYT)
London
SIXTY years ago, British India was granted independence and partitioned into Hindu-majority India and my native nation, Muslim-majority Pakistan. It was a birth of exceptional pain.
Handed down to me through the generations is the story of my namesake, my Kashmir-born great-grandfather. He was stabbed by a Muslim as he went for his daily stroll in Lahore’s Lawrence Gardens. Independence was only a few months away, and the communal violence that would accompany the partition was beginning to simmer.
My great-grandfather was attacked because he was mistaken for a Hindu. This was not surprising; as a lawyer, most of his colleagues were Hindus, as were many of his friends. He would shelter some of their families in his home during the murderous riots that were to come.
But my great-grandfather was a Muslim. More than that, he was a member of the Muslim League, which had campaigned for the creation of Pakistan. From the start, Pakistan has been prone to turning its knife upon itself.
Yet 1947 is also remembered in my family as a time of enormous hope. My great-grandfather survived. And the birth that year of his grandson, my father, marked the arrival of a first generation of something new: Pakistanis.
My mother recalls a childhood of sugar and flour rations. The 1950s, she says, were a decade of a young country finding its feet. She grew up in a small town and she describes a fierce love for Pakistan felt by her and her schoolmates. Pakistan was theirs, a source of pride and identity, symbolically both a parent and, because it inspired such feelings of protectiveness, a sibling.
In the 1960s, my mother’s family moved to Lahore, which had been the cultural and governmental center of Punjab Province before the region was ripped apart at independence. By then, Pakistan’s economy had begun to boom. My parents speak of cinemas showing the latest films, colleges producing idealistic graduates, and young couples walking along the banks of the River Ravi.
Yet Pakistan’s true glory at that time was the southern port of Karachi, where my uncle, then a young banker, went to live. It was, he says, a vibrant and cosmopolitan city, a place of cafes and sea breezes and visiting international flight crews; it hummed with the energy and ingenuity of millions of former refugees who had come from India.
Still, these rosy family recollections paint an incomplete picture. For the civilian government of Pakistan had been deposed by a military coup in 1958. Gen. Mohammad Ayub Khan was a steadfast American ally against the Soviet Union and the recipient of large amounts of American weaponry and aid.
But deprived of democracy for much of my parents’ youth, Pakistanis were unable to articulate an inclusive vision of what their country stood for. Making things worse, the country was divided in two, separated geographically by India. West Pakistan, the army’s heartland, received far more than its fair share of resources. After years of mistreatment and rigged elections, East Pakistanis fought a war of independence, India took up arms on their side, and East Pakistan became the nation of Bangladesh.
I was born in 1971, the year of this second partition, as Pakistan once again turned its knife upon itself.
After the bloodshed, what was left of Pakistan was forced to ask what it stood for. Democracy was restored, and Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto became wildly popular with a simple slogan: “Bread, clothing and a home.” In other words, Pakistan existed to lessen the poverty of its citizens.
Even I knew this slogan. At the age of two, I was reciting it on the kitchen table, standing tall as I had seen our prime minister do on television. My mother tried to get hold of me, and in my excitement I ran clear off the table, breaking my head on the kitchen floor. I still have the scar. Bhutto faired little better. He was deposed in 1977 and hanged.
So, like my parents before me, I was born in a democratic Pakistan but spent much of my youth in a dictatorship. And like General Ayub Khan before him, the new dictator, Gen. Muhammad Zia ul-Haq was a steadfast American ally against the Soviet Union. But whereas General Ayub Khan had been largely secular, General Zia envisioned Pakistan as a theocratic Muslim state. It became a staging-ground for the anti-Soviet jihad in Afghanistan and underwent a dramatic process of social engineering called Islamization.
Growing up in Lahore in the 1980s was unsettling. Assault rifles and heroin, byproducts of the war in Afghanistan, flooded the city. I had friends with drug problems, others who sometimes carried guns. Our parents had been able to mingle freely and go to the cinema. But we lived in a time of censorship and of women news anchors being forced to cover their heads on television. Preventing teenage boys and girls from falling in love seemed to be an official concern of the state, and avoiding police checkpoints became part of every date.
Although we disliked our president, my friends and I remained fiercely patriotic. We idolized Pakistani sporting heroes in cricket, field hockey and squash. We felt a thrill of achievement when we listened to bootleg cassettes of the first Pakistani rock bands. For us, the success of anything Pakistani was a source of personal pride.
In 1988, shortly before I left for college in America, General Zia died in a suspicious airplane crash and civilian rule was again restored. But the democracy of the ’90s was a disappointment, with power alternated between ineffective, feuding governments.
As my friends married and had children, a third generation of Pakistanis began to arrive. Like my parents’ generation, and like mine, these children were born in a democracy but would spend their youth under pro-American military rule, this time under Gen. Pervez Musharraf.
And now Pakistan is once again turning its knife on itself. Insurgencies simmer in the regions bordering Afghanistan, and suicide bombers have begun to kill fellow Pakistanis with increasing frequency.
For me personally, the 60th anniversary of independence, while worthy of note, is not of the utmost importance. My hopes are already dashing ahead and attaching themselves to the elections that are scheduled for later this year.
On one side are the forces of exclusion, who wish Pakistan to stand only for their kind of Pakistani. These include the political descendants of the man who stabbed my great-grandfather, the people who seek to oppress those who are clean shaven or those who toil for meager wages or those who are from provinces other than their own. But arrayed against them is something wholly new.
Pakistan now has private television stations that refuse to let the government set the news agenda. It has a Supreme Court that has asserted its independence for the first time, restoring a chief justice suspended by the president. And it has an army under physical attack from within and in desperate need of compromise with civil society.
A 60th birthday brings with it the obligation to shed some illusions. Pakistanis must realize that we have been our own worst enemies. My wish for our national anniversary is this: that we finally take the knife we have turned too often upon ourselves and place it firmly in its sheath.
Mohsin Hamid is the author, most recently, of the novel “The Reluctant Fundamentalist.”
By MOHSIN HAMID
Published: August 15, 2007 (NYT)
London
SIXTY years ago, British India was granted independence and partitioned into Hindu-majority India and my native nation, Muslim-majority Pakistan. It was a birth of exceptional pain.
Handed down to me through the generations is the story of my namesake, my Kashmir-born great-grandfather. He was stabbed by a Muslim as he went for his daily stroll in Lahore’s Lawrence Gardens. Independence was only a few months away, and the communal violence that would accompany the partition was beginning to simmer.
My great-grandfather was attacked because he was mistaken for a Hindu. This was not surprising; as a lawyer, most of his colleagues were Hindus, as were many of his friends. He would shelter some of their families in his home during the murderous riots that were to come.
But my great-grandfather was a Muslim. More than that, he was a member of the Muslim League, which had campaigned for the creation of Pakistan. From the start, Pakistan has been prone to turning its knife upon itself.
Yet 1947 is also remembered in my family as a time of enormous hope. My great-grandfather survived. And the birth that year of his grandson, my father, marked the arrival of a first generation of something new: Pakistanis.
My mother recalls a childhood of sugar and flour rations. The 1950s, she says, were a decade of a young country finding its feet. She grew up in a small town and she describes a fierce love for Pakistan felt by her and her schoolmates. Pakistan was theirs, a source of pride and identity, symbolically both a parent and, because it inspired such feelings of protectiveness, a sibling.
In the 1960s, my mother’s family moved to Lahore, which had been the cultural and governmental center of Punjab Province before the region was ripped apart at independence. By then, Pakistan’s economy had begun to boom. My parents speak of cinemas showing the latest films, colleges producing idealistic graduates, and young couples walking along the banks of the River Ravi.
Yet Pakistan’s true glory at that time was the southern port of Karachi, where my uncle, then a young banker, went to live. It was, he says, a vibrant and cosmopolitan city, a place of cafes and sea breezes and visiting international flight crews; it hummed with the energy and ingenuity of millions of former refugees who had come from India.
Still, these rosy family recollections paint an incomplete picture. For the civilian government of Pakistan had been deposed by a military coup in 1958. Gen. Mohammad Ayub Khan was a steadfast American ally against the Soviet Union and the recipient of large amounts of American weaponry and aid.
But deprived of democracy for much of my parents’ youth, Pakistanis were unable to articulate an inclusive vision of what their country stood for. Making things worse, the country was divided in two, separated geographically by India. West Pakistan, the army’s heartland, received far more than its fair share of resources. After years of mistreatment and rigged elections, East Pakistanis fought a war of independence, India took up arms on their side, and East Pakistan became the nation of Bangladesh.
I was born in 1971, the year of this second partition, as Pakistan once again turned its knife upon itself.
After the bloodshed, what was left of Pakistan was forced to ask what it stood for. Democracy was restored, and Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto became wildly popular with a simple slogan: “Bread, clothing and a home.” In other words, Pakistan existed to lessen the poverty of its citizens.
Even I knew this slogan. At the age of two, I was reciting it on the kitchen table, standing tall as I had seen our prime minister do on television. My mother tried to get hold of me, and in my excitement I ran clear off the table, breaking my head on the kitchen floor. I still have the scar. Bhutto faired little better. He was deposed in 1977 and hanged.
So, like my parents before me, I was born in a democratic Pakistan but spent much of my youth in a dictatorship. And like General Ayub Khan before him, the new dictator, Gen. Muhammad Zia ul-Haq was a steadfast American ally against the Soviet Union. But whereas General Ayub Khan had been largely secular, General Zia envisioned Pakistan as a theocratic Muslim state. It became a staging-ground for the anti-Soviet jihad in Afghanistan and underwent a dramatic process of social engineering called Islamization.
Growing up in Lahore in the 1980s was unsettling. Assault rifles and heroin, byproducts of the war in Afghanistan, flooded the city. I had friends with drug problems, others who sometimes carried guns. Our parents had been able to mingle freely and go to the cinema. But we lived in a time of censorship and of women news anchors being forced to cover their heads on television. Preventing teenage boys and girls from falling in love seemed to be an official concern of the state, and avoiding police checkpoints became part of every date.
Although we disliked our president, my friends and I remained fiercely patriotic. We idolized Pakistani sporting heroes in cricket, field hockey and squash. We felt a thrill of achievement when we listened to bootleg cassettes of the first Pakistani rock bands. For us, the success of anything Pakistani was a source of personal pride.
In 1988, shortly before I left for college in America, General Zia died in a suspicious airplane crash and civilian rule was again restored. But the democracy of the ’90s was a disappointment, with power alternated between ineffective, feuding governments.
As my friends married and had children, a third generation of Pakistanis began to arrive. Like my parents’ generation, and like mine, these children were born in a democracy but would spend their youth under pro-American military rule, this time under Gen. Pervez Musharraf.
And now Pakistan is once again turning its knife on itself. Insurgencies simmer in the regions bordering Afghanistan, and suicide bombers have begun to kill fellow Pakistanis with increasing frequency.
For me personally, the 60th anniversary of independence, while worthy of note, is not of the utmost importance. My hopes are already dashing ahead and attaching themselves to the elections that are scheduled for later this year.
On one side are the forces of exclusion, who wish Pakistan to stand only for their kind of Pakistani. These include the political descendants of the man who stabbed my great-grandfather, the people who seek to oppress those who are clean shaven or those who toil for meager wages or those who are from provinces other than their own. But arrayed against them is something wholly new.
Pakistan now has private television stations that refuse to let the government set the news agenda. It has a Supreme Court that has asserted its independence for the first time, restoring a chief justice suspended by the president. And it has an army under physical attack from within and in desperate need of compromise with civil society.
A 60th birthday brings with it the obligation to shed some illusions. Pakistanis must realize that we have been our own worst enemies. My wish for our national anniversary is this: that we finally take the knife we have turned too often upon ourselves and place it firmly in its sheath.
Mohsin Hamid is the author, most recently, of the novel “The Reluctant Fundamentalist.”
Some Baby Bibs Said to Contain Levels of Lead
Children have a right to be safe and parents have a right to procure that safety for their babies. HOW DARE companies making products for children try to cut corners in ways that could possibly endanger babies?
I'm so angry that i am actually at a loss for words!
Materialism and profit will kill our babies!
By ERIC LIPTON
Published: August 15, 2007
WASHINGTON, Aug. 14 — Certain vinyl baby bibs sold at Toys “R” Us stores appear to be contaminated with lead, laboratory tests have shown, making the inexpensive bibs another example of a made-in-China product that may be a health hazard to children.
Mattel Recalls 19 Million Toys Sent From China (August 15, 2007)
Trouble in China Is Good News for American Toy Manufacturers (August 15, 2007) The vinyl bibs, which feature illustrations of baseball bats and soccer balls and Disney’s Winnie the Pooh characters, are sold for less than $5 each under store brand labels, including Especially for Baby and Koala Baby.
Tests this summer, financed by the Center for Environmental Health of Oakland, Calif., found lead as high as three times the level allowed in paint in several styles of the bibs purchased from both Toys “R” Us and Babies “R” Us stores in California.
A separate test by a laboratory hired by The New York Times of the same Toys “R” Us bibs, purchased in Maryland, found a similar level of contamination.
“These bibs are exposing children to lead in an unnecessary way,” said Caroline Cox, research director at the Center for Environmental Health, a nonprofit agency that for the last decade has been testing consumer products for lead, in an effort to remove them from the market.
Kathleen Waugh, a Toys “R” Us spokeswoman, said that the company had hired an independent lab to do tests on the bibs as recently as May and they were found to be in compliance with safety standards for lead levels. Any test showing that individual bibs were potentially contaminated should not be interpreted as meaning the problem is widespread, she said, adding that the company’s own tests are more stringent than federal standards. “Our uncompromising commitment to safety has been, and continues to be, our highest priority,” she said in a written statement.
Officials from the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which regulates children’s products, said that they would prefer that there be no elevated levels of lead in bibs.
But their own recent tests of baby bibs on the market in the United States found that the lead, when present, was at levels low enough that a child chewing on or rubbing the bib would not get an unhealthy dose.
As a result, the agency urges parents to discard vinyl bibs only if they are ripped or otherwise deteriorated.
“There is a potential risk of lead exposure from babies swallowing pieces of cracked vinyl on used bibs,” the agency said in a statement, after being presented with the test results on the Toys “R” Us bibs.
But agency officials have not pushed for a recall of lead-contaminated bibs, including a brand sold earlier this year at Wal-Mart Stores, which the Center for Environmental Health also identified. Wal-Mart removed the bibs from its store shelves nationwide, but in Illinois, where 60,000 of the bibs had been sold, a strict lead law required their recall.
The bibs were imported for Toys “R” Us by Hamco Baby Products, the same company that made the bibs for Wal-Mart. The bibs will be retested, Ms. Waugh, the Toys “R” Us spokeswoman, said.
Toys “R” Us and Babies “R” Us are jointly controlled by Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, Bain Capital and Vornado Realty Trust. Hamco is a unit of Crown Crafts.
The agency’s approach has drawn criticism from some children’s advocates, and local and state health officials.
“All lead is bad lead,” said Patrick MacRoy, director of the Chicago lead poisoning prevention program. “Why should we allow any lead to be in there?”
The lead tests done for the Center for Environmental Health, conducted by the National Food Laboratory in Dublin, Calif., found levels as high as 1,800 parts per million in the Toys “R” Us bibs — three times the amount allowed in lead paint.
The tests of the Toys “R” Us bibs conducted in July for The New York Times by the same lab found similar results.
A separate test by Bureau Veritas, a testing lab in Buffalo, found little lead in the clear plastic pocket of the bib, but said that the lead in the colorful part of the bib was at levels high enough that minute amounts could transfer to a baby’s fingers.
A third lab, STAT Analysis of Chicago, found extremely low or not detectable levels both of total lead and of what is called “accessible” lead, or the lead a child could ingest by sucking or chewing on the bib.
Federal officials, when testing bibs, do three kinds of tests — one by checking the total amount of lead using solvents; another by rubbing the vinyl with a swab and testing the swab for lead; and a third by soaking the bib in a salty solution and testing the solution for lead.
These tests, on bibs collected from retailers nationwide this year, did at times find low levels of lead. But the C.P.S.C. concluded that even if infants had the bibs in their mouths all day, not enough lead would leach into their blood system to cause harm.
Based on these results, the agency concluded that the bibs did not present a hazard as long as they were not deteriorated.
But Mr. MacRoy, other health officials and children’s advocates argue that the C.P.S.C. uses an antiquated standard for what level of lead in a child’s blood stream represents a hazard. When combined with lead from other sources, including perhaps lead-based paint in an old house or lead-contaminated jewelry, the bibs could still result in poisoning or neurological damage in a child.
As a result, Ms. Cox of the California environmental group, among others, has urged parents to stop buying bibs that have even modest levels of lead.
Industry officials said that even if the lead was not at hazardous levels, they wanted to eliminate it. “We would like it not to be happening,” said Allen Blakey, a spokesman for the Vinyl Institute, a trade association.
Lead ends up in vinyl — otherwise known as polyvinyl chloride or PVC — from one of three primary sources. It is sometimes added as an inexpensive stabilizer; it can come from pigments used to add color; or it can come from recycled vinyl, which may have had lead in it from its earlier use, industry officials said.
Legislation proposed last year in Congress would ban more than trace levels of lead in any product intended for children under 6, similar to the Illinois law.
Given problems with lead found in vinyl, some companies are moving to replace it with other raw materials that they can be assured are lead-safe.
I'm so angry that i am actually at a loss for words!
Materialism and profit will kill our babies!
By ERIC LIPTON
Published: August 15, 2007
WASHINGTON, Aug. 14 — Certain vinyl baby bibs sold at Toys “R” Us stores appear to be contaminated with lead, laboratory tests have shown, making the inexpensive bibs another example of a made-in-China product that may be a health hazard to children.
Mattel Recalls 19 Million Toys Sent From China (August 15, 2007)
Trouble in China Is Good News for American Toy Manufacturers (August 15, 2007) The vinyl bibs, which feature illustrations of baseball bats and soccer balls and Disney’s Winnie the Pooh characters, are sold for less than $5 each under store brand labels, including Especially for Baby and Koala Baby.
Tests this summer, financed by the Center for Environmental Health of Oakland, Calif., found lead as high as three times the level allowed in paint in several styles of the bibs purchased from both Toys “R” Us and Babies “R” Us stores in California.
A separate test by a laboratory hired by The New York Times of the same Toys “R” Us bibs, purchased in Maryland, found a similar level of contamination.
“These bibs are exposing children to lead in an unnecessary way,” said Caroline Cox, research director at the Center for Environmental Health, a nonprofit agency that for the last decade has been testing consumer products for lead, in an effort to remove them from the market.
Kathleen Waugh, a Toys “R” Us spokeswoman, said that the company had hired an independent lab to do tests on the bibs as recently as May and they were found to be in compliance with safety standards for lead levels. Any test showing that individual bibs were potentially contaminated should not be interpreted as meaning the problem is widespread, she said, adding that the company’s own tests are more stringent than federal standards. “Our uncompromising commitment to safety has been, and continues to be, our highest priority,” she said in a written statement.
Officials from the Consumer Product Safety Commission, which regulates children’s products, said that they would prefer that there be no elevated levels of lead in bibs.
But their own recent tests of baby bibs on the market in the United States found that the lead, when present, was at levels low enough that a child chewing on or rubbing the bib would not get an unhealthy dose.
As a result, the agency urges parents to discard vinyl bibs only if they are ripped or otherwise deteriorated.
“There is a potential risk of lead exposure from babies swallowing pieces of cracked vinyl on used bibs,” the agency said in a statement, after being presented with the test results on the Toys “R” Us bibs.
But agency officials have not pushed for a recall of lead-contaminated bibs, including a brand sold earlier this year at Wal-Mart Stores, which the Center for Environmental Health also identified. Wal-Mart removed the bibs from its store shelves nationwide, but in Illinois, where 60,000 of the bibs had been sold, a strict lead law required their recall.
The bibs were imported for Toys “R” Us by Hamco Baby Products, the same company that made the bibs for Wal-Mart. The bibs will be retested, Ms. Waugh, the Toys “R” Us spokeswoman, said.
Toys “R” Us and Babies “R” Us are jointly controlled by Kohlberg Kravis Roberts, Bain Capital and Vornado Realty Trust. Hamco is a unit of Crown Crafts.
The agency’s approach has drawn criticism from some children’s advocates, and local and state health officials.
“All lead is bad lead,” said Patrick MacRoy, director of the Chicago lead poisoning prevention program. “Why should we allow any lead to be in there?”
The lead tests done for the Center for Environmental Health, conducted by the National Food Laboratory in Dublin, Calif., found levels as high as 1,800 parts per million in the Toys “R” Us bibs — three times the amount allowed in lead paint.
The tests of the Toys “R” Us bibs conducted in July for The New York Times by the same lab found similar results.
A separate test by Bureau Veritas, a testing lab in Buffalo, found little lead in the clear plastic pocket of the bib, but said that the lead in the colorful part of the bib was at levels high enough that minute amounts could transfer to a baby’s fingers.
A third lab, STAT Analysis of Chicago, found extremely low or not detectable levels both of total lead and of what is called “accessible” lead, or the lead a child could ingest by sucking or chewing on the bib.
Federal officials, when testing bibs, do three kinds of tests — one by checking the total amount of lead using solvents; another by rubbing the vinyl with a swab and testing the swab for lead; and a third by soaking the bib in a salty solution and testing the solution for lead.
These tests, on bibs collected from retailers nationwide this year, did at times find low levels of lead. But the C.P.S.C. concluded that even if infants had the bibs in their mouths all day, not enough lead would leach into their blood system to cause harm.
Based on these results, the agency concluded that the bibs did not present a hazard as long as they were not deteriorated.
But Mr. MacRoy, other health officials and children’s advocates argue that the C.P.S.C. uses an antiquated standard for what level of lead in a child’s blood stream represents a hazard. When combined with lead from other sources, including perhaps lead-based paint in an old house or lead-contaminated jewelry, the bibs could still result in poisoning or neurological damage in a child.
As a result, Ms. Cox of the California environmental group, among others, has urged parents to stop buying bibs that have even modest levels of lead.
Industry officials said that even if the lead was not at hazardous levels, they wanted to eliminate it. “We would like it not to be happening,” said Allen Blakey, a spokesman for the Vinyl Institute, a trade association.
Lead ends up in vinyl — otherwise known as polyvinyl chloride or PVC — from one of three primary sources. It is sometimes added as an inexpensive stabilizer; it can come from pigments used to add color; or it can come from recycled vinyl, which may have had lead in it from its earlier use, industry officials said.
Legislation proposed last year in Congress would ban more than trace levels of lead in any product intended for children under 6, similar to the Illinois law.
Given problems with lead found in vinyl, some companies are moving to replace it with other raw materials that they can be assured are lead-safe.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
42 and counting!
RICE with sambal.
Bread with strawberry jam.
What do they have in common?
Well, they are part of the ways people try to celebrate National Day – with food.
Why? Because they are red and white.
It may sound tacky, but they are really some of the more practical ideas people have when it comes to marking this occasion.
We are a practical nation after all, aren’t we?
I know of these “themed” food ideas because my brother’s school is having a “food ministry” session to celebrate National Day, where parents will cook for their boys. And some of the red-and-white food items find themselves in the menu.
This year, those who attend the National Day Parade will also get battery-operated handheld fans that, when switched on, have rotating red LED lights that appear on the fan blades.
I won’t spoil it for those who like to be surprised by what they find in their goodie bags, but suffice to say, it may make you smile.
So our goodie bag gets better and ever more bountiful; the laser shows get more intricate; and the stage gets more impressive.
The crowds get even bigger as the places to catch the parade for free are spread over the Marina Bay area.
For such a small country, it is amazing how many different ways we can think of to celebrate the birth of our nation.
But Singaporeans can be divided into two main camps when it comes to thinking of what to do on the national day off.
Those who make a huge effort to try to get tickets for the parade, and those who just want to get tickets to get out of the country for a short holiday (this year, by taking leave on Friday to make it a four-day long weekend, perhaps).
Then, among the smaller groups, there are those who see it as a time to make money.
“Entrepreneurial” auctioneers on eBay and Yahoo try to sell off NDP tickets.
It makes you wonder if it is really a celebration of money and ways to spend money.
Personally, I want to see National Day as a time to reflect on how far we have come, and what needs to be done now.
To the younger generation, such as myself, August 9 is merely the day Singapore became independent.
I say “merely” because I wonder how many of my counterparts know the depth of meaning behind the term “independence”.
Singaporeans today play a very small role in terms of “fighting” for the nation.
And this, I see as one main reason for the apathy that some Singaporeans have for their country.
So much has been done for us, that we expect things to continue happening smoothly according to some grand plan.
They say that students from less developed nations work harder because they are hungry to prove themselves, and also because that is the way up and out for them.
Singaporeans dream less of working but more of retirement; they work to retire, not to do something for their country.
With no new dreams for a nation that we can work at together, we are content to celebrating it as if it is another day at the mall, eating, going out with family and friends.
Nothing wrong with that, of course, but how is that different from any other weekend?
So maybe, we can spend some quiet moments like in a prayer, and think about what our country has given us and what we can give back in return.
Singapore has long been known as a parent state, but I think it is time for the parent to let the children do something in return. The parent is, after all, reaching middle-age at 42, so it may be a good time as any to take a step back and let the next generation get their hands dirty and learn how to run things.
Start small by all means, we can’t have a big change overnight where, for example, those who are disgruntled suddenly cast aside their plans to emigrate to greener pastures.
But think hard this year about what you mean to the country.
And if you think Singapore can do without you, then ask yourself why.
Bread with strawberry jam.
What do they have in common?
Well, they are part of the ways people try to celebrate National Day – with food.
Why? Because they are red and white.
It may sound tacky, but they are really some of the more practical ideas people have when it comes to marking this occasion.
We are a practical nation after all, aren’t we?
I know of these “themed” food ideas because my brother’s school is having a “food ministry” session to celebrate National Day, where parents will cook for their boys. And some of the red-and-white food items find themselves in the menu.
This year, those who attend the National Day Parade will also get battery-operated handheld fans that, when switched on, have rotating red LED lights that appear on the fan blades.
I won’t spoil it for those who like to be surprised by what they find in their goodie bags, but suffice to say, it may make you smile.
So our goodie bag gets better and ever more bountiful; the laser shows get more intricate; and the stage gets more impressive.
The crowds get even bigger as the places to catch the parade for free are spread over the Marina Bay area.
For such a small country, it is amazing how many different ways we can think of to celebrate the birth of our nation.
But Singaporeans can be divided into two main camps when it comes to thinking of what to do on the national day off.
Those who make a huge effort to try to get tickets for the parade, and those who just want to get tickets to get out of the country for a short holiday (this year, by taking leave on Friday to make it a four-day long weekend, perhaps).
Then, among the smaller groups, there are those who see it as a time to make money.
“Entrepreneurial” auctioneers on eBay and Yahoo try to sell off NDP tickets.
It makes you wonder if it is really a celebration of money and ways to spend money.
Personally, I want to see National Day as a time to reflect on how far we have come, and what needs to be done now.
To the younger generation, such as myself, August 9 is merely the day Singapore became independent.
I say “merely” because I wonder how many of my counterparts know the depth of meaning behind the term “independence”.
Singaporeans today play a very small role in terms of “fighting” for the nation.
And this, I see as one main reason for the apathy that some Singaporeans have for their country.
So much has been done for us, that we expect things to continue happening smoothly according to some grand plan.
They say that students from less developed nations work harder because they are hungry to prove themselves, and also because that is the way up and out for them.
Singaporeans dream less of working but more of retirement; they work to retire, not to do something for their country.
With no new dreams for a nation that we can work at together, we are content to celebrating it as if it is another day at the mall, eating, going out with family and friends.
Nothing wrong with that, of course, but how is that different from any other weekend?
So maybe, we can spend some quiet moments like in a prayer, and think about what our country has given us and what we can give back in return.
Singapore has long been known as a parent state, but I think it is time for the parent to let the children do something in return. The parent is, after all, reaching middle-age at 42, so it may be a good time as any to take a step back and let the next generation get their hands dirty and learn how to run things.
Start small by all means, we can’t have a big change overnight where, for example, those who are disgruntled suddenly cast aside their plans to emigrate to greener pastures.
But think hard this year about what you mean to the country.
And if you think Singapore can do without you, then ask yourself why.
My promise...
tere liye palkon ki jhaalar bunoo,
kaliyon saa gajre mein bandhe phiroon,
dhoop lage jahaan tujhe chhaayaa banoo, aajaa saajna
tere liye palkon ki jhaalar bunoo,
kaliyon saa gajre mein bandhe phiroon,
dhoop lage jahaan tujhe chhaayaa banoo, aajaa saajna
tere liye...
mehki mehki yeh raat hai,
behki behki har baat hai,
lajon maroon, jhoome jiyaa, kaise yeh main kahoon, aajaa sajanaa
mehki mehki yeh raat hai,
behki behki har baat hai,
lajon maroon, jhoome jiyaa, kaise yeh main kahoon, aajaa sajanaa
tere liye palkon ki jhaalar bunoo,
kaliyon saa gajre mein bandhe phiroon,
dhoop lage jahaan tujhe chhaayaa banoo, aajaa saajna
tere liye...
nayaa nayaa sansaar hai,
tu hi meraa ghar baar hai,
jaisa rakhe khushi khushi, waise hi main rahoon, aajaa sajanaa
nayaa nayaa sansaar hai,
tu hi meraa ghar baar hai,
jaisa rakhe khushi khushi, waise hi main rahoon, aajaa sajanaa
tere liye palkon ki jhaalar bunoo,
kaliyon saa gajre mein bandhe phiroon,
dhoop lage jahaan tujhe chhaayaa banoo, aajaa saajna
tere liye....
pyar meraa, teri jeet hai
sabse achchha meraa meet hai
tere liye roun piya, tere liye hasoon, aajaa sajanaa
pyar meraa, teri jeet hai
sabse achchha meraa meet hai
tere liye roun piya, tere liye hasoon, aajaa sajanaa
tere liye palkon ki jhaalar bunoo,
kaliyon saa gajre mein bandhe phiroon,
dhoop lage jahaan tujhe chhaayaa banoo, aajaa saajna
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Respect!
I’m a grown up now! My parents left me with my siblings and went on a ten-day holiday; and I survived! I managed to wake up to send my brother to school, myself off to work, buy groceries and make it home early enough to watch my brother complete his homework and still cook dinner and coax him to eat green leafy (albeit icky) veggies (I had to eat them too, to set a good example)!
I did not collapse in hysteria, nor did I lose my mind juggling all this! The only major shift that took place was in my mind, I realised just how much my mother manages to accomplish on a daily basis as a domestic-manager! It looks so very easy from the outside to sit at home and watch soap-operas (or Hindi soap-serials in this case), while the house cleans itself! Well, in my parents’ absence, I learnt that the house does not self-clean! Rags, brooms and mops need to be wielded with two hands, and it is not beneath me to do those chores, no matter how educated, well-read, cultured and independent I may be.
My parents’ trip, while a break for them; was certainly an eye-opener for me! Not just have I learnt to respect my mother a hundred times more; but I’ve developed a healthy respect for maids as well! Some of them come to Singapore far younger than me to be domestics, and although they must have dealt with their share of chores back home; it is always different in a stranger’s house!
I know of employers who will deduct the price of broken crockery or scratched Teflon (happens when a scourer meets the face of a non-stick pan; a concept not familiar in the rural villages where most of our household help comes from, and something most employers don’t bother to explain) from the wages of their maids. While I understand the concept of paying for mistakes, I think this is too literal an application of it.
Not so long ago, it was a big deal in the press about mandatory days of leave for maids; well as an employed person, I realise the importance of some break time. While all jobs, domestic work included, have downtime, where things are not as rushed, this is far from sufficient for the human mind and body to relax and rejuvenate for more work. It is in such moments that mistakes happen and glasses break. Domestic workers will find it difficult to comprehend a glass costing more than their monthly wage; crystal holds little meaning, especially if they are not forewarned of the consequences and told to take extra care when washing certain dishes.
I don’t think I would like to have the help of a maid when I have set-up home, and especially not a live-in maid. I am not ready for the responsibility of having another human being living with me and having to worry about her eating habits and dietary needs. It would be most unfair on my part to employ a maid and expect her to conform to my eating habits (I dislike most meat and am a largely bread person). I know of Chinese families who love pork and do not make alternate eating arrangements for their Muslim house-help; sometimes leaving them with little other than plain rice.
While I don’t claim to be a perfect person, or very morally-upright; these 10 days without my parents has drawn me out of my mother’s sheltered veil; and away from her apron-strings, I’ve begun to see the darker shades of life and the world a little more clearly. Many people I know are setting up home and a maid is a mandatory addition to their homes, whether needed or not. Many of my compatriots feel it beneath them to mop the floor once in a while; and a maid is almost a status-symbol of their bourgeois lifestyles.
When my parents return home, I know that I am going to make a far greater effort to help her out with little chores, for anyone who takes care of me and my household (be it mother, grand-parent, or hired help) must have an amazing level of patience; and is more than worthy of my respect.
I did not collapse in hysteria, nor did I lose my mind juggling all this! The only major shift that took place was in my mind, I realised just how much my mother manages to accomplish on a daily basis as a domestic-manager! It looks so very easy from the outside to sit at home and watch soap-operas (or Hindi soap-serials in this case), while the house cleans itself! Well, in my parents’ absence, I learnt that the house does not self-clean! Rags, brooms and mops need to be wielded with two hands, and it is not beneath me to do those chores, no matter how educated, well-read, cultured and independent I may be.
My parents’ trip, while a break for them; was certainly an eye-opener for me! Not just have I learnt to respect my mother a hundred times more; but I’ve developed a healthy respect for maids as well! Some of them come to Singapore far younger than me to be domestics, and although they must have dealt with their share of chores back home; it is always different in a stranger’s house!
I know of employers who will deduct the price of broken crockery or scratched Teflon (happens when a scourer meets the face of a non-stick pan; a concept not familiar in the rural villages where most of our household help comes from, and something most employers don’t bother to explain) from the wages of their maids. While I understand the concept of paying for mistakes, I think this is too literal an application of it.
Not so long ago, it was a big deal in the press about mandatory days of leave for maids; well as an employed person, I realise the importance of some break time. While all jobs, domestic work included, have downtime, where things are not as rushed, this is far from sufficient for the human mind and body to relax and rejuvenate for more work. It is in such moments that mistakes happen and glasses break. Domestic workers will find it difficult to comprehend a glass costing more than their monthly wage; crystal holds little meaning, especially if they are not forewarned of the consequences and told to take extra care when washing certain dishes.
I don’t think I would like to have the help of a maid when I have set-up home, and especially not a live-in maid. I am not ready for the responsibility of having another human being living with me and having to worry about her eating habits and dietary needs. It would be most unfair on my part to employ a maid and expect her to conform to my eating habits (I dislike most meat and am a largely bread person). I know of Chinese families who love pork and do not make alternate eating arrangements for their Muslim house-help; sometimes leaving them with little other than plain rice.
While I don’t claim to be a perfect person, or very morally-upright; these 10 days without my parents has drawn me out of my mother’s sheltered veil; and away from her apron-strings, I’ve begun to see the darker shades of life and the world a little more clearly. Many people I know are setting up home and a maid is a mandatory addition to their homes, whether needed or not. Many of my compatriots feel it beneath them to mop the floor once in a while; and a maid is almost a status-symbol of their bourgeois lifestyles.
When my parents return home, I know that I am going to make a far greater effort to help her out with little chores, for anyone who takes care of me and my household (be it mother, grand-parent, or hired help) must have an amazing level of patience; and is more than worthy of my respect.
No pain no gain!??
Thanks to various credit card companies, I have recently been the lucky recipient of a number of vouchers, covering the entire beautifying process from facials to relaxing and deep tissue massages! After I overcame my delight at receiving such goodies to beautify myself before my first day at a new job, I sat down with my calendar to make appointments!
I have never actually been for a facial, and so my first appointment was for a “bio-oxygen facial”! After trekking across Chinatown to find the wonderfully hidden little spa, I was sweating and frazzled! Stepping into the cool interior of the spa and inhaling the (so-typical) incense did help to calm me before I faced a stack of forms and disclaimers to sign, having to reveal details like my weight and height. While I was wondering how this affected a facial; my beautician turned up and led me to a private room.
As I relaxed on the bed waiting for her, I thought about how relaxed I would be in the aftermath of the facial. And indeed, the facial did start off well with a cool scrub, then a steam. The worst part began when she started using her nails on my face to dig out blackheads! While I was worrying about the hygiene level of her nails and open pores on my skin, she was gleefully humming a tune to herself! Just as I thought I was no longer going to be able to take the pain of her long nails squeezing my pores, she began to use what felt like a needle to pierce my skin to remove the said blackheads. When the tears began to flow, she asked if I would like some anaesthetizing cream to help numb the pain. As at this point I was literally sobbing, I just nodded while she muttered that it would be an additional $50 (for a facial that only cost $38).
She rubbed some cream on my face and continued prodding and poking; I do not know about the pain reduction; but my tears must have washed off most of the cream. Thank goodness, it ended soon after and after a quick mask, I was ready to go. As I stepped out of the room, I was ushered into another room for a “sales talk” where they tried really hard to convince me that I wanted to cry in sheer pain once every three weeks for 6 months, at a discounted package price of only $3000! As I escaped the spa, I praised God that I had the wisdom to schedule a massage with another voucher instead of another facial.
Delightedly, I went off for my massage session the next week, and at the risk of sounding like a prude, the idea of wearing nothing under the gown except disposable knickers was a terrifying thought to me. Telling myself to grow up, I lay down on another bed in another spa and awaited another beautician/masseuse. This time though, the pain began immediately! What was supposed to be a “relaxing massage” involved the masseuse (a rather healthy-sized woman) clambering onto the bed, knees on either side of me, and kneading my poor back with her full body strength. After shedding more tears (believe me, I am not usually a cry-baby); I squealed for her to lighten up! Which accordingly she did, and I breathed easy, for about ten seconds… eventually I gave up trying to tell her to go slow and simply told her that I was in a hurry and had to go, so she could cut short the session.
As I admired the leftover sore spots on my face from my first facial and the huge blue-black bruises that decorated my back from my massage session; I picked up the phone and cancelled the remaining “free” sessions the vouchers offered. I fully understand both the clichés “no pain, no gain” and the concept of “no such thing as a free lunch”. Perhaps I am not meant to enjoy such beauty treatments, be that as it may, I am pretty happy the way I am. As a lesson learnt, I went out and splurged on a new book to relax (alternative to massage) and a box of Tate’s lavender tea (alternative to detox facial). All my credit card companies take note; I prefer tea and books, so keep such pain-free vouchers coming!
I have never actually been for a facial, and so my first appointment was for a “bio-oxygen facial”! After trekking across Chinatown to find the wonderfully hidden little spa, I was sweating and frazzled! Stepping into the cool interior of the spa and inhaling the (so-typical) incense did help to calm me before I faced a stack of forms and disclaimers to sign, having to reveal details like my weight and height. While I was wondering how this affected a facial; my beautician turned up and led me to a private room.
As I relaxed on the bed waiting for her, I thought about how relaxed I would be in the aftermath of the facial. And indeed, the facial did start off well with a cool scrub, then a steam. The worst part began when she started using her nails on my face to dig out blackheads! While I was worrying about the hygiene level of her nails and open pores on my skin, she was gleefully humming a tune to herself! Just as I thought I was no longer going to be able to take the pain of her long nails squeezing my pores, she began to use what felt like a needle to pierce my skin to remove the said blackheads. When the tears began to flow, she asked if I would like some anaesthetizing cream to help numb the pain. As at this point I was literally sobbing, I just nodded while she muttered that it would be an additional $50 (for a facial that only cost $38).
She rubbed some cream on my face and continued prodding and poking; I do not know about the pain reduction; but my tears must have washed off most of the cream. Thank goodness, it ended soon after and after a quick mask, I was ready to go. As I stepped out of the room, I was ushered into another room for a “sales talk” where they tried really hard to convince me that I wanted to cry in sheer pain once every three weeks for 6 months, at a discounted package price of only $3000! As I escaped the spa, I praised God that I had the wisdom to schedule a massage with another voucher instead of another facial.
Delightedly, I went off for my massage session the next week, and at the risk of sounding like a prude, the idea of wearing nothing under the gown except disposable knickers was a terrifying thought to me. Telling myself to grow up, I lay down on another bed in another spa and awaited another beautician/masseuse. This time though, the pain began immediately! What was supposed to be a “relaxing massage” involved the masseuse (a rather healthy-sized woman) clambering onto the bed, knees on either side of me, and kneading my poor back with her full body strength. After shedding more tears (believe me, I am not usually a cry-baby); I squealed for her to lighten up! Which accordingly she did, and I breathed easy, for about ten seconds… eventually I gave up trying to tell her to go slow and simply told her that I was in a hurry and had to go, so she could cut short the session.
As I admired the leftover sore spots on my face from my first facial and the huge blue-black bruises that decorated my back from my massage session; I picked up the phone and cancelled the remaining “free” sessions the vouchers offered. I fully understand both the clichés “no pain, no gain” and the concept of “no such thing as a free lunch”. Perhaps I am not meant to enjoy such beauty treatments, be that as it may, I am pretty happy the way I am. As a lesson learnt, I went out and splurged on a new book to relax (alternative to massage) and a box of Tate’s lavender tea (alternative to detox facial). All my credit card companies take note; I prefer tea and books, so keep such pain-free vouchers coming!
Give back!
070707 was the day my graduation ceremony was held; the guest of honor is an acclaimed alumni of NUS and the arts Faculty. Having majored in political science, she then went on to dedicate her life and work to the needy. Ms. Eunice Olsen, a lady who became one of our youngest NMPs, and has indeed given to society in many ways. The question I asked myself when they announced her name was “are they inviting her as a hint to us”. Are we supposed to think less about money and success and focus on making society a better place?
As a fresh graduate, I have enough dreams to make my head swell! I am still obsessed with noble aims of wanting to write a novel that will change the way people think, that will inspire people to be true to themselves and ask what they can do for themselves, others and their nation before asking what others and their nation can do for them.
Yet in all these airy fairy dreams of mine, there is the cynic in my head which repeatedly yells that these are just dreams! The facts of life and our society dictate that as a fresh graduate I first find a job that offers a salary commensurate with what the papers keep publishing. The starting salary of an SMU graduate who entered the oil industry sometime last year was a reported $12000; with such news bites sprinkling the media, how can any self-respecting fresh graduate, who probably has a tuition fee loan running in the tens of thousands, or a CPF loan to pay off, take on a job that offers self-improvement over a high salary?
I challenge my fellow graduates to tell me how many of them would give up cushy pay packets for job satisfaction. I know I could not do that. I have to think of the costs of education loans, laptop loans, transport costs wedding and housing costs; in our society we have forgotten the less fortunate in our bid to keep rising up. The more we have, the more we want. The cycle just never ends.
I am glad that on the occasion of my graduation, the guest of honor was not another PhD candidate with a secure tenure in a top university spouting words that mean little. I am glad that NUS invited someone whom we can all identify with, a Bachelors degree holder, who has worked and earned and lived the same life we have, in the same society, and yet made something of herself; not in terms of cash perhaps, but in terms of personal growth and giving to others.
I have often written about making courteous comments to service staff in order to make their day; and to reiterate, this too is one way of giving to society. There are so many little things we can do every single day, in every single place we go, that the common excuse of “I’m too busy” simply does not stand.
Instead of throwing away that almost-new but slightly too short/tight/outdated miniskirt, stop and give it to the Salvation Army instead. Before relegating stacks of Enid Blytons and Roald Dahls to the garbage truck, box it up and donate it to various thrift shops, or the stall that currently sits outside Wisma Atria collecting and selling second hand books for charity!
Neither of the acts I described above take excessive lengths of time; and all of them seem immensely do-able to me. So since I myself lack the courage to donate all my working hours to charity, I am hardly able to challenge anyone else to do so; so while I admire Ms Olsen for her work, I am honest in my self-assessment and declare myself unable to do the same. However, since I have donated old clothes to thrift shops and books to charity, I can request the same of my peers. Give back some of what we have got, I urge you! We studied for 3 to 4 years on highly subsidized fees! It’s time to give back, with a grateful heart.
As a fresh graduate, I have enough dreams to make my head swell! I am still obsessed with noble aims of wanting to write a novel that will change the way people think, that will inspire people to be true to themselves and ask what they can do for themselves, others and their nation before asking what others and their nation can do for them.
Yet in all these airy fairy dreams of mine, there is the cynic in my head which repeatedly yells that these are just dreams! The facts of life and our society dictate that as a fresh graduate I first find a job that offers a salary commensurate with what the papers keep publishing. The starting salary of an SMU graduate who entered the oil industry sometime last year was a reported $12000; with such news bites sprinkling the media, how can any self-respecting fresh graduate, who probably has a tuition fee loan running in the tens of thousands, or a CPF loan to pay off, take on a job that offers self-improvement over a high salary?
I challenge my fellow graduates to tell me how many of them would give up cushy pay packets for job satisfaction. I know I could not do that. I have to think of the costs of education loans, laptop loans, transport costs wedding and housing costs; in our society we have forgotten the less fortunate in our bid to keep rising up. The more we have, the more we want. The cycle just never ends.
I am glad that on the occasion of my graduation, the guest of honor was not another PhD candidate with a secure tenure in a top university spouting words that mean little. I am glad that NUS invited someone whom we can all identify with, a Bachelors degree holder, who has worked and earned and lived the same life we have, in the same society, and yet made something of herself; not in terms of cash perhaps, but in terms of personal growth and giving to others.
I have often written about making courteous comments to service staff in order to make their day; and to reiterate, this too is one way of giving to society. There are so many little things we can do every single day, in every single place we go, that the common excuse of “I’m too busy” simply does not stand.
Instead of throwing away that almost-new but slightly too short/tight/outdated miniskirt, stop and give it to the Salvation Army instead. Before relegating stacks of Enid Blytons and Roald Dahls to the garbage truck, box it up and donate it to various thrift shops, or the stall that currently sits outside Wisma Atria collecting and selling second hand books for charity!
Neither of the acts I described above take excessive lengths of time; and all of them seem immensely do-able to me. So since I myself lack the courage to donate all my working hours to charity, I am hardly able to challenge anyone else to do so; so while I admire Ms Olsen for her work, I am honest in my self-assessment and declare myself unable to do the same. However, since I have donated old clothes to thrift shops and books to charity, I can request the same of my peers. Give back some of what we have got, I urge you! We studied for 3 to 4 years on highly subsidized fees! It’s time to give back, with a grateful heart.
I read republican trash!
Obama Hails a Unicorn
by Ann Coulter
Fox News ought to buy a copy of Monday's Democrat debate on CNN to play over and over during the general election campaign. For now, the Democratic candidates need to appeal only to their nut-base. So on Monday night, the candidates casually spouted liberal conspiracy theories that would frighten normal Americans, but are guaranteed to warm the hearts of losers blogging from their mother's basements.
B. Hussein Obama got the party started by claiming he couldn't get a cab in New York because he's black. This line was a big hit with white liberals in the audience who have never been to New York.
Even writers for The New York Times don't drag this canard out anymore. Last year, a black writer in the Times pointed out how things had changed in New York in the 10 years since he had been out of the country. Not only did he have no trouble getting a cab, but he cited statistics from taxi sting operations that showed a 96 percent compliance rate among cabbies in picking up blacks. (Remarkable, considering that New York cabbies' compliance rate on daily bathing is less than half that.)
As the Times writer noted, even 10 years ago, "most of the drivers who refused to pick me up or take me to my destination during that time were of African descent." When he asked one cabbie -- 10 years ago -- why he avoided picking up black customers, the driver displayed a scar across his neck, a souvenir from a black customer who had robbed him. "I have to choose which is worse," the driver said, "a fine or death."
Thanks to Rudy Giuliani, cab drivers in New York no longer have to make that choice. Under his mayoralty, New York City became a lot safer for cab drivers -- and everyone else. The murder rate went from about 2,000 murders a year under Mayor David Dinkins to about 700 by the end of Giuliani's term. The last time a cab driver was killed in New York was in 1997.
In addition to making it safer for (mostly African-American and Muslim) cabbies to pick up African-Americans, Giuliani made it costly for them not to. He started "Operation Refusal" in 1999, sending out teams of black undercover cops and taxi commissioners to hail cabs and give fines to those who refused to pick up blacks.
Even back in 1999, in the first 12 hours of "Operation Refusal," out of more than 800 cabs hailed, only five cab drivers refused to pick up a customer -- one of whom was a white woman with children. And by the way, I've had dozens of cabs refuse to stop for me on Fifth Avenue. Sometimes they forget to turn on the "off duty" light, or they're daydreaming or maybe they've read my columns on Muslims.
Next time, B. Hussein Obama ought to tell us the one about Kool cigarettes being owned by the KKK and causing impotence in black men. There may not be overwhelming evidence disproving that one as there is for the yarn about blacks not being able to get a cab in New York.
Overall, Hillary appeared to be the only Democrat even dimly aware that there will eventually be a general election. But she too played to her audience with wacky conspiracy theories. Oops, I mean she "discussed the Democratic platform in detail." No need for me to get judgmental.
Hillary raised the Bush-stole-the-2000-election fairy tale, saying: "I think it is a problem that Bush was elected in 2000. I actually thought somebody else was elected in that election, but ..." (Applause.)
On Nov. 12, 2001, The New York Times ran a front page article that began: "A comprehensive review of the uncounted Florida ballots from last year's presidential election reveals that George W. Bush would have won even if the United States Supreme Court had allowed the statewide manual recount of the votes that the Florida Supreme Court had ordered to go forward."
Another Times article that day by Richard L. Berke said that the "comprehensive review of the uncounted Florida ballots solidifies George W. Bush's legal claim on the White House because it concludes that he would have won under the ground rules prescribed by the Democrats."
On Nov. 18, 2001, notorious pro-abortion zealot Linda Greenhouse wrote in the Times that the media consortium's count of all the disputed Florida ballots -- in which the Times participated -- concluded "that George W. Bush would have won the 2000 presidential election even had the court not cut the final recount short."
If three prominent articles in the Treason Times isn't enough to convince Hillary that Bush won the 2000 election, forget the White House: ABC ought to hire her to replace Rosie O'Donnell on "The View." I know that's a big seat to fill, but maybe she can finally convince Elizabeth Hasselbeck that 9/11 was an inside job.
Ann Coulter is Legal Affairs Correspondent for HUMAN EVENTS and author of "High Crimes and Misdemeanors," "Slander," ""How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must)," and most recently, "Godless."
Here are a few of the comments submitted by readers.
-What a joke, as per usual!
I love the line "liberals in the audience who have never been to New York" - that's a great one! After all, most liberals hail from the hillbilly infested South and Middle American.. oh wait! Those are all the RED states! Yeah, New York City isn't fiercely liberal.. I think Ann just closes her eyes and types and whatever comes out, comes out.. and it's usually ridiculous!
I also love how she still thinks it's funny to play around with Barrack Obama's name to make him sound like a terrorist! Ann apparently still thinks like she's in 4th grade.. I wonder what she'll have to say when he's either her President or VP, cuz it's going to happen! Will she refrain from "bashing the Commander in Chief", the same thing she kills the left for? Right..
Without the Treason Times, there would have never been an Iraq War.. without the Treason Times, Bush would have never been elected a second time (they waited until after the elections to break the ILLEGAL wiretapping story). I love how a reputable news source that has been around for 100 years can simply try to do their job and tell the truth about our political process and our incompetent leadership, and suddenly they're traitors.. I sincerely wish all you righties, all of you, would just follow each other right off a cliff. The world would be so much better off without you!
CK, PhillyJul 25, 2007 @ 07:54 PM
-Annie you are a disgrace to womanhood,America, and the republican party.
cpburns, huntsville,txJul 25, 2007 @ 07:58 PM
-ahhh CK. That's the difference between liberals and conservatives. You want us to step off a cliff when all we ask is that you step off your soapbox.
fedupwithbs, washington, dcJul 25, 2007 @ 08:02 PM
by Ann Coulter
Fox News ought to buy a copy of Monday's Democrat debate on CNN to play over and over during the general election campaign. For now, the Democratic candidates need to appeal only to their nut-base. So on Monday night, the candidates casually spouted liberal conspiracy theories that would frighten normal Americans, but are guaranteed to warm the hearts of losers blogging from their mother's basements.
B. Hussein Obama got the party started by claiming he couldn't get a cab in New York because he's black. This line was a big hit with white liberals in the audience who have never been to New York.
Even writers for The New York Times don't drag this canard out anymore. Last year, a black writer in the Times pointed out how things had changed in New York in the 10 years since he had been out of the country. Not only did he have no trouble getting a cab, but he cited statistics from taxi sting operations that showed a 96 percent compliance rate among cabbies in picking up blacks. (Remarkable, considering that New York cabbies' compliance rate on daily bathing is less than half that.)
As the Times writer noted, even 10 years ago, "most of the drivers who refused to pick me up or take me to my destination during that time were of African descent." When he asked one cabbie -- 10 years ago -- why he avoided picking up black customers, the driver displayed a scar across his neck, a souvenir from a black customer who had robbed him. "I have to choose which is worse," the driver said, "a fine or death."
Thanks to Rudy Giuliani, cab drivers in New York no longer have to make that choice. Under his mayoralty, New York City became a lot safer for cab drivers -- and everyone else. The murder rate went from about 2,000 murders a year under Mayor David Dinkins to about 700 by the end of Giuliani's term. The last time a cab driver was killed in New York was in 1997.
In addition to making it safer for (mostly African-American and Muslim) cabbies to pick up African-Americans, Giuliani made it costly for them not to. He started "Operation Refusal" in 1999, sending out teams of black undercover cops and taxi commissioners to hail cabs and give fines to those who refused to pick up blacks.
Even back in 1999, in the first 12 hours of "Operation Refusal," out of more than 800 cabs hailed, only five cab drivers refused to pick up a customer -- one of whom was a white woman with children. And by the way, I've had dozens of cabs refuse to stop for me on Fifth Avenue. Sometimes they forget to turn on the "off duty" light, or they're daydreaming or maybe they've read my columns on Muslims.
Next time, B. Hussein Obama ought to tell us the one about Kool cigarettes being owned by the KKK and causing impotence in black men. There may not be overwhelming evidence disproving that one as there is for the yarn about blacks not being able to get a cab in New York.
Overall, Hillary appeared to be the only Democrat even dimly aware that there will eventually be a general election. But she too played to her audience with wacky conspiracy theories. Oops, I mean she "discussed the Democratic platform in detail." No need for me to get judgmental.
Hillary raised the Bush-stole-the-2000-election fairy tale, saying: "I think it is a problem that Bush was elected in 2000. I actually thought somebody else was elected in that election, but ..." (Applause.)
On Nov. 12, 2001, The New York Times ran a front page article that began: "A comprehensive review of the uncounted Florida ballots from last year's presidential election reveals that George W. Bush would have won even if the United States Supreme Court had allowed the statewide manual recount of the votes that the Florida Supreme Court had ordered to go forward."
Another Times article that day by Richard L. Berke said that the "comprehensive review of the uncounted Florida ballots solidifies George W. Bush's legal claim on the White House because it concludes that he would have won under the ground rules prescribed by the Democrats."
On Nov. 18, 2001, notorious pro-abortion zealot Linda Greenhouse wrote in the Times that the media consortium's count of all the disputed Florida ballots -- in which the Times participated -- concluded "that George W. Bush would have won the 2000 presidential election even had the court not cut the final recount short."
If three prominent articles in the Treason Times isn't enough to convince Hillary that Bush won the 2000 election, forget the White House: ABC ought to hire her to replace Rosie O'Donnell on "The View." I know that's a big seat to fill, but maybe she can finally convince Elizabeth Hasselbeck that 9/11 was an inside job.
Ann Coulter is Legal Affairs Correspondent for HUMAN EVENTS and author of "High Crimes and Misdemeanors," "Slander," ""How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must)," and most recently, "Godless."
Here are a few of the comments submitted by readers.
-What a joke, as per usual!
I love the line "liberals in the audience who have never been to New York" - that's a great one! After all, most liberals hail from the hillbilly infested South and Middle American.. oh wait! Those are all the RED states! Yeah, New York City isn't fiercely liberal.. I think Ann just closes her eyes and types and whatever comes out, comes out.. and it's usually ridiculous!
I also love how she still thinks it's funny to play around with Barrack Obama's name to make him sound like a terrorist! Ann apparently still thinks like she's in 4th grade.. I wonder what she'll have to say when he's either her President or VP, cuz it's going to happen! Will she refrain from "bashing the Commander in Chief", the same thing she kills the left for? Right..
Without the Treason Times, there would have never been an Iraq War.. without the Treason Times, Bush would have never been elected a second time (they waited until after the elections to break the ILLEGAL wiretapping story). I love how a reputable news source that has been around for 100 years can simply try to do their job and tell the truth about our political process and our incompetent leadership, and suddenly they're traitors.. I sincerely wish all you righties, all of you, would just follow each other right off a cliff. The world would be so much better off without you!
CK, PhillyJul 25, 2007 @ 07:54 PM
-Annie you are a disgrace to womanhood,America, and the republican party.
cpburns, huntsville,txJul 25, 2007 @ 07:58 PM
-ahhh CK. That's the difference between liberals and conservatives. You want us to step off a cliff when all we ask is that you step off your soapbox.
fedupwithbs, washington, dcJul 25, 2007 @ 08:02 PM
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Singapore Art Show - NYT comment
“The thing I’m worried about is, everything we’re trying to do here is economically orientated and that’s disturbing to me,” said the artist Amanda Heng, whose work will be part of the “Curating Lab.” “Now that they’ve found art is a cultural capital, they want to get hold of it. So we put money into it, but this cannot be done with art. Art is something that you nurture slowly and it develops over time.”
She added: “Developing the art is not like making instant noodles. It takes time. The very colorful things you see from other countries come from a very long, historical art past, which we don’t have. I hope we can recognize this and start building and understanding our short art history.”
She added: “Developing the art is not like making instant noodles. It takes time. The very colorful things you see from other countries come from a very long, historical art past, which we don’t have. I hope we can recognize this and start building and understanding our short art history.”
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
So Random...
Eliza asked me to write a bit of something on a picture of a woman applying hot-pink lipstick...
There are some shades of pink that do not belong on the body; at least not after the 80s. The glitter on the lipstick simply screams reminders of disco-balls with "stayin' alive" playing in the smokey background with a pervasive smell of hairspray around! Not to forget masses of curly haired girls thrusting their hips around, dressed in hot-pink big-Ts worn over tight black leggings. On the other hand, that is still alot more decent than the short Ts that many girls wear over black leggings these days; but hot pink lipstick is a big nono!
For that matter, at least the 80s were a time of individuality; people tried to express themselve in different ways. There were the leggings and Ts group; but there were also eye-popping (and a lot else popping too) miniskirts, and also the first "power women" in power suits. The one thing common would be their lipstick! Lipstick just completes a woman's attire; her entire personality is defined in the colour she chooses. While pale colours and glosses symbolise the innocence (in theory) of youth, the fire-engine red that my mother wears reminds me that she is passionate; and unafraid to show it. Her personality is as bright and rich as the colour.
Hot pink on the lips... pink is always an eye-catching and attracting colour; the lips can be seen to be a very sensual part of the body; unfortunately the mix of the colour and the sensousness only creates a sluttiness on the wearer. All sensuality is best kept slightly hidden, a nude woman looks better under understated black satin than tight fuschia or hot pink! Especially if the outfit is not perfectly fitting; or the lip colour bleeds out of the lip line; or even worse, is within the lipline, displaying not only a lack of make-up skills but also carelessness in dressing and thus in life.
We are whom we pretend to be; thus we ought to be careful whom we are pretending to be. What a lesson to be learnt from a line that bleeds out of our lipstick.
There are some shades of pink that do not belong on the body; at least not after the 80s. The glitter on the lipstick simply screams reminders of disco-balls with "stayin' alive" playing in the smokey background with a pervasive smell of hairspray around! Not to forget masses of curly haired girls thrusting their hips around, dressed in hot-pink big-Ts worn over tight black leggings. On the other hand, that is still alot more decent than the short Ts that many girls wear over black leggings these days; but hot pink lipstick is a big nono!
For that matter, at least the 80s were a time of individuality; people tried to express themselve in different ways. There were the leggings and Ts group; but there were also eye-popping (and a lot else popping too) miniskirts, and also the first "power women" in power suits. The one thing common would be their lipstick! Lipstick just completes a woman's attire; her entire personality is defined in the colour she chooses. While pale colours and glosses symbolise the innocence (in theory) of youth, the fire-engine red that my mother wears reminds me that she is passionate; and unafraid to show it. Her personality is as bright and rich as the colour.
Hot pink on the lips... pink is always an eye-catching and attracting colour; the lips can be seen to be a very sensual part of the body; unfortunately the mix of the colour and the sensousness only creates a sluttiness on the wearer. All sensuality is best kept slightly hidden, a nude woman looks better under understated black satin than tight fuschia or hot pink! Especially if the outfit is not perfectly fitting; or the lip colour bleeds out of the lip line; or even worse, is within the lipline, displaying not only a lack of make-up skills but also carelessness in dressing and thus in life.
We are whom we pretend to be; thus we ought to be careful whom we are pretending to be. What a lesson to be learnt from a line that bleeds out of our lipstick.
Monday, March 26, 2007
SMILE!
I dream of a nation where people will give way to the elderly on the bus and murmur a polite “excuse me” before elbowing their neighbors to get off the bus. I dream of a people who will not fall asleep the moment a heavily pregnant lady steps onto the bus; but instead stand to offer her a seat. In my dream, we are helpful and generous, considerate and polite; not because of any IMF and World Bank meetings, but because we inherently are.
Babies smile as soon as their muscles are developed and only frown and cry when in pain or discomfort; why then does it take so much for adults to smile and so little for them to frown? How is it that a look around the office/street/bus shows only people concentrated upon themselves and lost in their problems; if eyes meet, they quickly look away, without smiling. It’s an old joke among foreigners that if a stranger in Singapore smiles at you, they must either be new to the country; or drunk.
Yet I know many locals who are really nice, friendly and smiley people! What then turns them into sulks in the face of strangers? A friend suggests that the difference between Singaporeans and Americans is that Americans living the suburbs seldom see as many people as we do and so are friendlier. Singaporeans living in such a crowded country tend to see too many people and thus prefer to get lost in themselves.
Entirely possible I’m sure; yet I wish things were different. There is a particular bus driver I know, on service 855 who greets every passenger boarding the bus and goes so far as to ask familiar faces how their workday was! The first time I boarded the bus I was stunned, then I came to look forward to it! The passengers on the bus are the same Singaporeans who will not smile at each other on other busses but on this particular (I call it the “smiley bus”) bus ride, everyone seems slightly more cheerful. It seems the atmosphere in the bus is different; there are many more smiles, and a general sense of happiness among the tired commuters heading home (I usually take this bus at about 8pm).
The smiley driver is not an anomaly in this country, there are other drivers who are equally cheerful and many sales people who make my day with a sweet greeting or a genuine smile. However, more often than not, salespeople look stunned when I wish them a nice day and generally only manage to stammer out a shocked “thanks”. I tell taxi-drivers to drive carefully and take care as I leave their cabs and enjoy the feeling of knowing that I have given him a pleasant surprise and hopefully a smile that will carry him through the next bad customer.
There is a cliched saying that I feel rings true in all our lives, “Don’t frown, because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile”. And not just your smile I say, also your voice when you thank them, or apologise for bumping into them on the bus, or whisper excuse me instead of shoving them to board the train first.
We all smile at our loved ones; why not smile a little more in daily life and perhaps win a few more hearts (I don’t mean stalkers, I mean goodwill of people)! Smiling and being courteous, and having the favour returned is, in my opinion, the first step to being more positive as a people. Turn the frown around for a day, and see how much better you feel at the end of it! Smile, if for no other reason, then because you look better happy!
Babies smile as soon as their muscles are developed and only frown and cry when in pain or discomfort; why then does it take so much for adults to smile and so little for them to frown? How is it that a look around the office/street/bus shows only people concentrated upon themselves and lost in their problems; if eyes meet, they quickly look away, without smiling. It’s an old joke among foreigners that if a stranger in Singapore smiles at you, they must either be new to the country; or drunk.
Yet I know many locals who are really nice, friendly and smiley people! What then turns them into sulks in the face of strangers? A friend suggests that the difference between Singaporeans and Americans is that Americans living the suburbs seldom see as many people as we do and so are friendlier. Singaporeans living in such a crowded country tend to see too many people and thus prefer to get lost in themselves.
Entirely possible I’m sure; yet I wish things were different. There is a particular bus driver I know, on service 855 who greets every passenger boarding the bus and goes so far as to ask familiar faces how their workday was! The first time I boarded the bus I was stunned, then I came to look forward to it! The passengers on the bus are the same Singaporeans who will not smile at each other on other busses but on this particular (I call it the “smiley bus”) bus ride, everyone seems slightly more cheerful. It seems the atmosphere in the bus is different; there are many more smiles, and a general sense of happiness among the tired commuters heading home (I usually take this bus at about 8pm).
The smiley driver is not an anomaly in this country, there are other drivers who are equally cheerful and many sales people who make my day with a sweet greeting or a genuine smile. However, more often than not, salespeople look stunned when I wish them a nice day and generally only manage to stammer out a shocked “thanks”. I tell taxi-drivers to drive carefully and take care as I leave their cabs and enjoy the feeling of knowing that I have given him a pleasant surprise and hopefully a smile that will carry him through the next bad customer.
There is a cliched saying that I feel rings true in all our lives, “Don’t frown, because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile”. And not just your smile I say, also your voice when you thank them, or apologise for bumping into them on the bus, or whisper excuse me instead of shoving them to board the train first.
We all smile at our loved ones; why not smile a little more in daily life and perhaps win a few more hearts (I don’t mean stalkers, I mean goodwill of people)! Smiling and being courteous, and having the favour returned is, in my opinion, the first step to being more positive as a people. Turn the frown around for a day, and see how much better you feel at the end of it! Smile, if for no other reason, then because you look better happy!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Waiting
Thats the title of this picture... which somehow, magically, in its simple strokes of colour, sums up every intention i have for my life in future.
Shy, yet to eager. So alive yet so demure.
Contraidictory; and maybe a little sententious.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
'Indian languages carry the legacy of caste'
The Article:
'Indian languages carry the legacy of caste'
Sheela Bhatt
March 05, 2007In an article on reservation for oppressed classes in the information technology sector, noted sociologist Gail Omvedt had quoted a Dalit boy as saying: 'In Pune they just assume that anyone working with computers is a Brahmin.'
The hidden agony of being born in the former untouchable class is now coming into the open in the so-called resurgent India. Dalits, who number around 161 million and live on the margins of society, are passing through testing times.
In a changing India, they don't want to be left behind as they have for thousands of years in the past. Their aspiration to get ahead is driving them to a variety of new ideas and actions. They are also, looking back to their messiah -- freedom fighter and Constitution expert Dr B R Babasaheb Ambedkar.
New Delhi-based Chandra Bhan Prasad, 48, is a Dalit activist who writes a weekly column on Dalit issues in The Pioneer newspaper.
Born in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh, in a peasant's family, Prasad has done an M Phil from Jawaharlal Nehru University on technological acquisition in post-Mao China. Due to unavailability of resources he could not complete his Ph D in the Chinese history of science.
Prasad picked up the gun in the early 1980s when he joined the Communist Party of India-Maoist Leninist with dreams of changing Indian society. "The Maoists are ambiguous, they can't win," he says. "They are not reflective on the issue of caste in India so I left the CPI-ML."
Now, married but struggling without a regular income, Prasad keeps throwing up provocative ideas concerning Dalits in the national debate.
His latest idea is the anti-thesis of the saying -- 'language is the cradle of civilisation.' Prasad thinks the ethnic languages of India are carrying forward -- generation after generation -- the prejudices and biases of casteist Indian minds.
Prasad, in a passionately argued debate with Managing Editor Sheela Bhatt, claims that for the empowerment of Dalits, the knowledge of English is must, especially in a society where those who can speak English are riding up the social ladder faster than others.
English, he says, is the new goddess!
Prasad celebrated October 25, 2006, Thomas Macaulay's birthday as a day when the Dalit community in New Delhi unveiled Goddess English!
Why do you want Dalits to abandon their mother tongues and take up English which is not their mother tongue?
In Indian society nothing belongs to the Dalits. Anything that is Indian, mirrors the Indian culture, value system. It will certainly contain the strong flavour of caste and prejudice against untouchables.
In Hindi, to greet somebody we say pranam. The person bows down and there is a kind of body coordination like the folding of hands and bowing down of the head when he or she says pranam.
According to Indian tradition, Dalits don't have the right to receive pranam . Because the receiver of the pranam had the right to bless, so Dalits never received pranams. In response, the person responds with 'khush raho (be happy).
Have Dalits ever blessed the upper castes?
I want to emphasis the fact that how Indian languages -- be it Hindi, Bengali, Marathi, Tamil or Malayalam -- all of them carry the legacy of caste. But if you replace Hindi or Tamil by English you will greet by saying 'good morning.' The other person will respond saying 'good morning'. Both will look into the eyes and equality is established.
There are too many caste-based abuses in India. People say chori-chamari na karna. (Don't steal like the chamars, who are the lowest caste amongst the Dalits). In the countryside these abuses are quite common, even now. "I'll make you a bhangi(sweeper caste)!" -- is quite often used as a threat.
In Hindi films and television serials they have slightly modified these age-old abuses. They now say chori-chakari na karna. It hurts us. Analyse it with a little sensitivity. These abuses are meant for us only; it reflects the mindset of Indians.
Indians don't eat pork because untouchables were eating it. Germans eat it, why can't we eat it? They are fine people also. Indian culture carries many such caste-based biases.
What are the broader issues in favour of English?
There are several cultural aspects. The knowledge of English by Dalits will hit at the backbone of the caste system.
India's caste system relies on the twin principle of occupational purity and blood purity. You could not go out of your occupation. A cobbler's son would have to be a cobbler and a carpenter's son remained a carpenter for generations. Inter-caste marriages were strictly prohibited.
For centuries Dalits could not marry outside their caste to maintain caste purity. But if a Dalit knows English then there is no way he will be climbing a toddy tree and end up doing a manual job.
The English-speaking Dalit will not be made a sweeper or a cleaner of toilets. Good knowledge of English will emancipate him and give him leverage to liberate himself from traditional occupations.
Once you are out of your traditional socio-circle you have a higher chance to marry in the non-Dalit family. That will break the bondage of 'blood purity' as well. There are some instances of Dalits who speak English, they dress well, have a good job and are married to Brahmins.
In a recent television interview, Yogendra Yadav, the wellknown thinker on social issues, has effectively rebutted your argument. The caste system will not go away only because Dalits start speaking English. It will be more useful if the mindset of the upper caste changes.
You are right. My movement for English will not immediately demolish the caste system. But it will be a great leap forward. Look at the way ordinary people are treated in India who know only Indian languages and the way English-speaking people are treated.
When you speak English it so happens that you dress up differently. I get invited to parties and when I speak in English people talk differently and are even ready to listen to me.
What I speak, if spoken in Hindi, doesn't make an impact at all. I am dismissed but if I say the same things in English, I am heard and applauded. Also, you may have noticed that English-speaking people tend to wear suits and matching shoes. Better dressing elevates your position and makes you heard.
But it is also true that to move ahead in life you need confidence and talent more than anything else. Second, unless the upper castes change their mindset how are you going to get fair treatment, which is your real and final aim? In other words, the upper castes will give you equal status irrespective of the fact that you speak Hindi or Telugu or English if and when they realise their wrongs.
The change in mindset will only help you, not your knowledge of English. And, if you have confidence in your talent or in yourself more can be achieved than otherwise. You have an example of Planning Commission Member Dr Bal Mungekar.
He is a well-known economist who writes in English, speaks English. He didn't write his first book in Marathi, his mother tongue. If he was not English-speaking he would not have been made a member of the Planning Commission.
But that would be true for even a Brahmin economist.
For the same reason I am arguing that chances of Dalits moving ahead will be much less without knowing English.
It may not be an entirely correct argument because Lalu Prasad Yadav, a leader of the Other Backward Classes, is powerful and successful because of his ethnicity. Rather, he knows English but never speaks it because he knows that to win an election in India he should speak Hindi. How do you explain that? He ridicules English-speaking people and is still surging ahead.
You can't compare him to ordinary Dalits because he holds political office. Politics is a limited field. In democracy, you can win an election without the knowledge of English. How many can become MPs?
We are talking about his confidence.
But he is ridiculed too.
J Jaylalithaa's strength is not her knowledge of English.
You can't compare politics with what I am saying.
Okay, take Sania Mirza. Her talent and tact has nothing to do with her knowledge of English.
Films, sports and politics are different fields. I am talking of ordinary lives. These are fields offering opportunities to merely a few people. Whereas the knowledge of English can give opportunity to millions and millions of people. Not out of any complexes but with confidence we have celebrated Lord Macaulay's birthday on October 25, 2006. On that day, we have established English as the Dalits' goddess.
People condemn him for making India bilingual but I consider Macaulay the father of Indian modernity. The bottom line is that since I have some knowledge of English I feel more confident than those other Dalits who can't speak English.
Do you disagree that culture and identity is interlinked to languages?
Yes, I agree.
My response:
Irrational!by Ratna Tiwary on Mar 06, 2007 11:12 AM
"English-speaking people tend to wear suits and matching shoes" -- ie English speaking people tend to be westernised. So what our friend here is attempting to do, is not just remove caste but also all other aspects of indian culture, including native dress and language. I am not a proponent of caste, but there is a bigger picture; the day will come when dalits all speak english and wear suits, but so what? the number of jobs will still be the same, and unemplyment figures stagnant. What then? Dropping of surnames? Changing all indian names to "Smith" or "Bush"? Westernisation is not a panacea for all social ills; in fact the western countrise admit that their way of thinking is in fact detrimental to their own societies! He says: "It may not be an entirely correct argument because Lalu Prasad Yadav, a leader of the Other Backward Classes, is powerful and successful because of his ethnicity. Rather, he knows English but never speaks it because he knows that to win an election in India he should speak Hindi. How do you explain that? He ridicules English-speaking people and is still surging ahead. You can't compare him to ordinary Dalits because he holds political office. Politics is a limited field. In democracy, you can win an election without the knowledge of English. How many can become MPs?" How very contraidictory! And then celebrating Macaulay's birthday! Macaulay believed in European, especially British, superiority over all things Oriental! The term Macaulay's Children is used to refer to people born of Indian ancestry who adopt Western culture as a lifestyle, or display attitudes influenced by colonisers. The term is usually used in a derogatory fashion, and the connotation is one of disloyalty to one's country and one's heritage. "It is impossible for us, with our limited means, to attempt to educate the body of the people. We must at present do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern; a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, in morals, and in intellect. To that class we may leave it to refine the vernacular dialects of the country, to enrich those dialects with terms of science borrowed from the Western nomenclature, and to render them by degrees fit vehicles for conveying knowledge to the great mass of the population." And it is this man, whom this great dalit leader revers!
'Indian languages carry the legacy of caste'
Sheela Bhatt
March 05, 2007In an article on reservation for oppressed classes in the information technology sector, noted sociologist Gail Omvedt had quoted a Dalit boy as saying: 'In Pune they just assume that anyone working with computers is a Brahmin.'
The hidden agony of being born in the former untouchable class is now coming into the open in the so-called resurgent India. Dalits, who number around 161 million and live on the margins of society, are passing through testing times.
In a changing India, they don't want to be left behind as they have for thousands of years in the past. Their aspiration to get ahead is driving them to a variety of new ideas and actions. They are also, looking back to their messiah -- freedom fighter and Constitution expert Dr B R Babasaheb Ambedkar.
New Delhi-based Chandra Bhan Prasad, 48, is a Dalit activist who writes a weekly column on Dalit issues in The Pioneer newspaper.
Born in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh, in a peasant's family, Prasad has done an M Phil from Jawaharlal Nehru University on technological acquisition in post-Mao China. Due to unavailability of resources he could not complete his Ph D in the Chinese history of science.
Prasad picked up the gun in the early 1980s when he joined the Communist Party of India-Maoist Leninist with dreams of changing Indian society. "The Maoists are ambiguous, they can't win," he says. "They are not reflective on the issue of caste in India so I left the CPI-ML."
Now, married but struggling without a regular income, Prasad keeps throwing up provocative ideas concerning Dalits in the national debate.
His latest idea is the anti-thesis of the saying -- 'language is the cradle of civilisation.' Prasad thinks the ethnic languages of India are carrying forward -- generation after generation -- the prejudices and biases of casteist Indian minds.
Prasad, in a passionately argued debate with Managing Editor Sheela Bhatt, claims that for the empowerment of Dalits, the knowledge of English is must, especially in a society where those who can speak English are riding up the social ladder faster than others.
English, he says, is the new goddess!
Prasad celebrated October 25, 2006, Thomas Macaulay's birthday as a day when the Dalit community in New Delhi unveiled Goddess English!
Why do you want Dalits to abandon their mother tongues and take up English which is not their mother tongue?
In Indian society nothing belongs to the Dalits. Anything that is Indian, mirrors the Indian culture, value system. It will certainly contain the strong flavour of caste and prejudice against untouchables.
In Hindi, to greet somebody we say pranam. The person bows down and there is a kind of body coordination like the folding of hands and bowing down of the head when he or she says pranam.
According to Indian tradition, Dalits don't have the right to receive pranam . Because the receiver of the pranam had the right to bless, so Dalits never received pranams. In response, the person responds with 'khush raho (be happy).
Have Dalits ever blessed the upper castes?
I want to emphasis the fact that how Indian languages -- be it Hindi, Bengali, Marathi, Tamil or Malayalam -- all of them carry the legacy of caste. But if you replace Hindi or Tamil by English you will greet by saying 'good morning.' The other person will respond saying 'good morning'. Both will look into the eyes and equality is established.
There are too many caste-based abuses in India. People say chori-chamari na karna. (Don't steal like the chamars, who are the lowest caste amongst the Dalits). In the countryside these abuses are quite common, even now. "I'll make you a bhangi(sweeper caste)!" -- is quite often used as a threat.
In Hindi films and television serials they have slightly modified these age-old abuses. They now say chori-chakari na karna. It hurts us. Analyse it with a little sensitivity. These abuses are meant for us only; it reflects the mindset of Indians.
Indians don't eat pork because untouchables were eating it. Germans eat it, why can't we eat it? They are fine people also. Indian culture carries many such caste-based biases.
What are the broader issues in favour of English?
There are several cultural aspects. The knowledge of English by Dalits will hit at the backbone of the caste system.
India's caste system relies on the twin principle of occupational purity and blood purity. You could not go out of your occupation. A cobbler's son would have to be a cobbler and a carpenter's son remained a carpenter for generations. Inter-caste marriages were strictly prohibited.
For centuries Dalits could not marry outside their caste to maintain caste purity. But if a Dalit knows English then there is no way he will be climbing a toddy tree and end up doing a manual job.
The English-speaking Dalit will not be made a sweeper or a cleaner of toilets. Good knowledge of English will emancipate him and give him leverage to liberate himself from traditional occupations.
Once you are out of your traditional socio-circle you have a higher chance to marry in the non-Dalit family. That will break the bondage of 'blood purity' as well. There are some instances of Dalits who speak English, they dress well, have a good job and are married to Brahmins.
In a recent television interview, Yogendra Yadav, the wellknown thinker on social issues, has effectively rebutted your argument. The caste system will not go away only because Dalits start speaking English. It will be more useful if the mindset of the upper caste changes.
You are right. My movement for English will not immediately demolish the caste system. But it will be a great leap forward. Look at the way ordinary people are treated in India who know only Indian languages and the way English-speaking people are treated.
When you speak English it so happens that you dress up differently. I get invited to parties and when I speak in English people talk differently and are even ready to listen to me.
What I speak, if spoken in Hindi, doesn't make an impact at all. I am dismissed but if I say the same things in English, I am heard and applauded. Also, you may have noticed that English-speaking people tend to wear suits and matching shoes. Better dressing elevates your position and makes you heard.
But it is also true that to move ahead in life you need confidence and talent more than anything else. Second, unless the upper castes change their mindset how are you going to get fair treatment, which is your real and final aim? In other words, the upper castes will give you equal status irrespective of the fact that you speak Hindi or Telugu or English if and when they realise their wrongs.
The change in mindset will only help you, not your knowledge of English. And, if you have confidence in your talent or in yourself more can be achieved than otherwise. You have an example of Planning Commission Member Dr Bal Mungekar.
He is a well-known economist who writes in English, speaks English. He didn't write his first book in Marathi, his mother tongue. If he was not English-speaking he would not have been made a member of the Planning Commission.
But that would be true for even a Brahmin economist.
For the same reason I am arguing that chances of Dalits moving ahead will be much less without knowing English.
It may not be an entirely correct argument because Lalu Prasad Yadav, a leader of the Other Backward Classes, is powerful and successful because of his ethnicity. Rather, he knows English but never speaks it because he knows that to win an election in India he should speak Hindi. How do you explain that? He ridicules English-speaking people and is still surging ahead.
You can't compare him to ordinary Dalits because he holds political office. Politics is a limited field. In democracy, you can win an election without the knowledge of English. How many can become MPs?
We are talking about his confidence.
But he is ridiculed too.
J Jaylalithaa's strength is not her knowledge of English.
You can't compare politics with what I am saying.
Okay, take Sania Mirza. Her talent and tact has nothing to do with her knowledge of English.
Films, sports and politics are different fields. I am talking of ordinary lives. These are fields offering opportunities to merely a few people. Whereas the knowledge of English can give opportunity to millions and millions of people. Not out of any complexes but with confidence we have celebrated Lord Macaulay's birthday on October 25, 2006. On that day, we have established English as the Dalits' goddess.
People condemn him for making India bilingual but I consider Macaulay the father of Indian modernity. The bottom line is that since I have some knowledge of English I feel more confident than those other Dalits who can't speak English.
Do you disagree that culture and identity is interlinked to languages?
Yes, I agree.
My response:
Irrational!by Ratna Tiwary on Mar 06, 2007 11:12 AM
"English-speaking people tend to wear suits and matching shoes" -- ie English speaking people tend to be westernised. So what our friend here is attempting to do, is not just remove caste but also all other aspects of indian culture, including native dress and language. I am not a proponent of caste, but there is a bigger picture; the day will come when dalits all speak english and wear suits, but so what? the number of jobs will still be the same, and unemplyment figures stagnant. What then? Dropping of surnames? Changing all indian names to "Smith" or "Bush"? Westernisation is not a panacea for all social ills; in fact the western countrise admit that their way of thinking is in fact detrimental to their own societies! He says: "It may not be an entirely correct argument because Lalu Prasad Yadav, a leader of the Other Backward Classes, is powerful and successful because of his ethnicity. Rather, he knows English but never speaks it because he knows that to win an election in India he should speak Hindi. How do you explain that? He ridicules English-speaking people and is still surging ahead. You can't compare him to ordinary Dalits because he holds political office. Politics is a limited field. In democracy, you can win an election without the knowledge of English. How many can become MPs?" How very contraidictory! And then celebrating Macaulay's birthday! Macaulay believed in European, especially British, superiority over all things Oriental! The term Macaulay's Children is used to refer to people born of Indian ancestry who adopt Western culture as a lifestyle, or display attitudes influenced by colonisers. The term is usually used in a derogatory fashion, and the connotation is one of disloyalty to one's country and one's heritage. "It is impossible for us, with our limited means, to attempt to educate the body of the people. We must at present do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern; a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, in morals, and in intellect. To that class we may leave it to refine the vernacular dialects of the country, to enrich those dialects with terms of science borrowed from the Western nomenclature, and to render them by degrees fit vehicles for conveying knowledge to the great mass of the population." And it is this man, whom this great dalit leader revers!
Leave me alone to daydream on the bus
The Electric New Paper :
Leave me alone to daydream on the bus
I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.
By Ratna Tiwary
03 March 2007
I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.
I take the bus to work and school every day and back home again at the end of a hectic day. I refuse to study in the bus (unless there is an exam that day), I seldom entertain phone calls and text messages, and I detest making inane small talk with acquaintances while travelling.
The moments I spend in the bus each day have become a refuge.
It is almost the only time in my crowded day when I do not have anything to do. I can daydream, think about articles for the next month and make plans for my dream home/wedding/career/novel.
I can peer at clouds from my seat and imagine unicorns dancing to La Bamba. My time in the bus is a time to reminisce, think about old friends and remember silly incidents as landmarks whizz by.
I pass my old school daily on my way to work, and every day, fresh memories are triggered that make me chuckle to myself. It starts my day off on a beautiful note.
Spotting the walkway leading up to school, I remember how my best friends and I did a Chinese-soldier march up the slope while singing 'wo men shi nian qing de wei guo jun' (we are the young patriotic soldiers).
Just imagine three giggly girls in pink tops and grey skirts playing soldier. As I pass the canteen, I nearly fall off the bus seat with barely-contained laughter, recalling how we used to buy beautiful birthday cakes for friends, only to smash them into their faces and then chase and be chased by them around the school grounds.
My time on the bus is a time for me to imagine. Sitting on the blue seats of the usually non-airconditioned bus service 93 every morning, feeling the cool morning air hitting my face and tousling my hair, I mentally sketch my dream home.
I'd love a balcony that allows me to enjoy the same fresh breeze every morning, preferably leading from my bedroom so that I can wake up to fresh air and singing birds.
As cars pass by, I dissect each of them and put them back together to build my dream car. The curves of the VW Beetle, with the gorgeous square headlights of old Mercedes-Benzes, the engine of a zippy little Ferrari and, hopefully, the price tag of the Chery QQ .
As I see the familiar face of a little girl on the bus each morning and smile at her, I imagine a little girl with my hair, nose, eyes, height, intelligence, and well, something from her father too. But that's a different dream (tall, fair, handsome, rich...).
When we turned 18, all my friends rushed to register for the theory of driving tests, all eagerly waiting to drive.
I tagged along andpassed both the Basic and Final theory tests, but driving lessons annoyed me. I had to focus on the car, I was responsible for all those people passing me, driving behind me, crossing the road before me, at traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, everywhere.
I could no longer dream and imagine and reminisce while the world passed me by and the breeze ruffled my hair.
Eventually, I stopped the lessons because those moments of freedom in the bus were just too vital to me. The euphoria they bring and the sheer joy I feel are too important to sacrifice.
Perhaps in a different place and time, I too will see a need to drive - to ferry my children to school, my husband to work, myself to the mall.
Perhaps then I may treasure the gurgling laughter of my children and their endless questions, the scent of my husband's cologne in the car and the thrill of my own driving, more than I treasure my freedom in the bus today.
In the meantime, however, if you see me in the bus, please smile, but then leave me to my dreams and memories.
--
The writer is a graduate in political science and South Asian studies from NUS. To give feedback, e-mail tnp@sph.com.sg.
Leave me alone to daydream on the bus
I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.
By Ratna Tiwary
03 March 2007
I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.
I take the bus to work and school every day and back home again at the end of a hectic day. I refuse to study in the bus (unless there is an exam that day), I seldom entertain phone calls and text messages, and I detest making inane small talk with acquaintances while travelling.
The moments I spend in the bus each day have become a refuge.
It is almost the only time in my crowded day when I do not have anything to do. I can daydream, think about articles for the next month and make plans for my dream home/wedding/career/novel.
I can peer at clouds from my seat and imagine unicorns dancing to La Bamba. My time in the bus is a time to reminisce, think about old friends and remember silly incidents as landmarks whizz by.
I pass my old school daily on my way to work, and every day, fresh memories are triggered that make me chuckle to myself. It starts my day off on a beautiful note.
Spotting the walkway leading up to school, I remember how my best friends and I did a Chinese-soldier march up the slope while singing 'wo men shi nian qing de wei guo jun' (we are the young patriotic soldiers).
Just imagine three giggly girls in pink tops and grey skirts playing soldier. As I pass the canteen, I nearly fall off the bus seat with barely-contained laughter, recalling how we used to buy beautiful birthday cakes for friends, only to smash them into their faces and then chase and be chased by them around the school grounds.
My time on the bus is a time for me to imagine. Sitting on the blue seats of the usually non-airconditioned bus service 93 every morning, feeling the cool morning air hitting my face and tousling my hair, I mentally sketch my dream home.
I'd love a balcony that allows me to enjoy the same fresh breeze every morning, preferably leading from my bedroom so that I can wake up to fresh air and singing birds.
As cars pass by, I dissect each of them and put them back together to build my dream car. The curves of the VW Beetle, with the gorgeous square headlights of old Mercedes-Benzes, the engine of a zippy little Ferrari and, hopefully, the price tag of the Chery QQ .
As I see the familiar face of a little girl on the bus each morning and smile at her, I imagine a little girl with my hair, nose, eyes, height, intelligence, and well, something from her father too. But that's a different dream (tall, fair, handsome, rich...).
When we turned 18, all my friends rushed to register for the theory of driving tests, all eagerly waiting to drive.
I tagged along andpassed both the Basic and Final theory tests, but driving lessons annoyed me. I had to focus on the car, I was responsible for all those people passing me, driving behind me, crossing the road before me, at traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, everywhere.
I could no longer dream and imagine and reminisce while the world passed me by and the breeze ruffled my hair.
Eventually, I stopped the lessons because those moments of freedom in the bus were just too vital to me. The euphoria they bring and the sheer joy I feel are too important to sacrifice.
Perhaps in a different place and time, I too will see a need to drive - to ferry my children to school, my husband to work, myself to the mall.
Perhaps then I may treasure the gurgling laughter of my children and their endless questions, the scent of my husband's cologne in the car and the thrill of my own driving, more than I treasure my freedom in the bus today.
In the meantime, however, if you see me in the bus, please smile, but then leave me to my dreams and memories.
--
The writer is a graduate in political science and South Asian studies from NUS. To give feedback, e-mail tnp@sph.com.sg.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wonderful piece i came across
I'm 71 retired, married for 49 years. The day we were married I promised my self that I would be all I could be to my husband and my children, to the best of my ability.
I got up an hour early so I could have some space to quietly relax and drink my coffee and make a list of things to do that day.
Every one had their own alarm clock.
I fixed breakfast, usually hot cereal, some time pancakes or waffles and always orange juice. On weekend we had grape juice for a treat instead of orange juice.
Got my husband off to work and my children off to school with a full belly.
I spent 1/2 hour every day working on my list. If you with out fail spend 1/2 hour on house work you can usually get the thing on your list done.
I showered and fixed myself up for the day. Tried to be finished by 10 am. I always had a little private race with myself to reach my 10 am deadline.
I was free to do as I chose until 1:30 pm.
At 1:30 I started preparing dinner.
Kids were home between 3:15 to 3:45 and they were starving hungry.
I had dinner on the table when my husband came home at 4:00.
We ate, my husband had his shower.
While he showered myself and kids had a race to see if we could get the kitchened cleaned up by the time he finished his shower.
The kids did their home work, sometimes needing my husbands or my help.
I ran what some would call a tight ship, but we had the evening free from five on.
Kids were in their room or in bed by 8:30. Leaving some quiet time for both my husband and myself.
Yes, due to sicknes or other extinuating circumstances our schedule was interupted.
You learn to dicipline your self and the rest of the family.
My married kids are trying to do the same for their family.
They tell me that I made their home a sanctuary and no matter how bad things were at school, they knew they were coming home to a safe, happy home.
We worked together and we played together and life was good.
Your schedule will probably be different but you can create your own to build a safe, happy sanctuary.
I hope this is helpful and I hope I didn't tell you more that you wanted to know.
Try it. Do what you have to do. Do your best.
I got up an hour early so I could have some space to quietly relax and drink my coffee and make a list of things to do that day.
Every one had their own alarm clock.
I fixed breakfast, usually hot cereal, some time pancakes or waffles and always orange juice. On weekend we had grape juice for a treat instead of orange juice.
Got my husband off to work and my children off to school with a full belly.
I spent 1/2 hour every day working on my list. If you with out fail spend 1/2 hour on house work you can usually get the thing on your list done.
I showered and fixed myself up for the day. Tried to be finished by 10 am. I always had a little private race with myself to reach my 10 am deadline.
I was free to do as I chose until 1:30 pm.
At 1:30 I started preparing dinner.
Kids were home between 3:15 to 3:45 and they were starving hungry.
I had dinner on the table when my husband came home at 4:00.
We ate, my husband had his shower.
While he showered myself and kids had a race to see if we could get the kitchened cleaned up by the time he finished his shower.
The kids did their home work, sometimes needing my husbands or my help.
I ran what some would call a tight ship, but we had the evening free from five on.
Kids were in their room or in bed by 8:30. Leaving some quiet time for both my husband and myself.
Yes, due to sicknes or other extinuating circumstances our schedule was interupted.
You learn to dicipline your self and the rest of the family.
My married kids are trying to do the same for their family.
They tell me that I made their home a sanctuary and no matter how bad things were at school, they knew they were coming home to a safe, happy home.
We worked together and we played together and life was good.
Your schedule will probably be different but you can create your own to build a safe, happy sanctuary.
I hope this is helpful and I hope I didn't tell you more that you wanted to know.
Try it. Do what you have to do. Do your best.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Caste clouds India's high hopes
Indians want to see their country punch its weight around the world - but are worried the caste system is holding it back, a BBC poll suggests.Almost two-thirds of respondents in the World Service poll said India being an economic superpower was important.
But 55% thought caste issues were still a "barrier to social harmony".
Visitors to BBC websites chose questions for the survey. A nationally representative sample of 1,616 Indians was interviewed in December.
The poll found that a majority (71%) are proud to be an Indian.
Most also thought it was important that India should be a political (60%) and military (60%) superpower.
A majority were optimistic about many aspects of the modern Indian state - more than half (55%) think the Indian justice system treats rich and poor people fairly, a statistic which some may find surprising given perceived failures in the police and courts.
Nearly as many (52%) think being a woman is no barrier to success any more.
And the survey found that twice as many people (48%) would rather work for a private company than for the government (22%).
But on other topics respondents were less positive.
Forty-seven percent agreed that "corruption is a fact of life which we should accept as the price of doing business in today's world", although younger people were less tolerant of corruption than older people.
And if Indians are agreed on the need for India to be an economic superpower, they are less sure they are seeing the fruits of recent economic growth.
Asked whether India's economic growth over the past 10 years had benefited them and their families directly, exactly the same proportion (45%) said that it had, as disagreed.
One in two (50%) felt that "people in India don't take their religion seriously enough", while two in five (40%) believed that "young people have lost touch with their heritage and traditions".
In total 1,616 citizens in India were interviewed between 5-15 December 2006.
Polling was conducted for the BBC World Service by the international polling firm GlobeScan and its research partner in India. The margin of error is +/-2.5.
Story from BBC NEWS:http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/south_asia/6320413.stmPublished: 2007/02/05 00:03:10 GMT© BBC MMVII
Polling was conducted for the BBC World Service by the international polling firm GlobeScan and its research partner in India. The margin of error is +/-2.5.
Story from BBC NEWS:http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/south_asia/6320413.stmPublished: 2007/02/05 00:03:10 GMT© BBC MMVII
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Papa, you're my Valentine forever
I HAVE had the same Valentine for the past 22 years. And now that I reflect on it, he is probably the best man to have as a Valentine.
By Ratna Tiwary
03 February 2007
I HAVE had the same Valentine for the past 22 years. And now that I reflect on it, he is probably the best man to have as a Valentine.
You see, 14 Feb is my father's birthday.
So understandably, he's been my companion every year on that day.
After years of wishing I could go out with friends on that day - I have never spent it with a boyfriend - this year, I'm actually looking forward to spending quality time with my papa.
A father-daughter relationship is a special one.
And I agree with all those who say that women look for their fathers in their partners.
PILLAR OF STRENGTH
My father is a strong man. Not in the sense that he is Samson-like, but he has always dealt with life in a manner that makes me admire him.
This dawned on me only after my teenage years - which was not too long ago. During those years though, I suppressed all positive feelings about him and spent my time trying to paint him in big-bad-wolf shades.
How is it that in the rush to grow up, and then in the fight to not grow old so soon, a girl's father often gets forgotten?
Faith Hill sang a song entitled Daddy's Little Girl, which aptly sums up this relationship:
'He's a book of advice/More than I need/The look in his eyes is saying to me/Let me help you all I can/While I'm still in this world'.
Yes, my father is a big man, always there for me.
I know papa looks stern all the time and makes valiant attempts to scare away friends of mine whom he deems undesirable.
But I also remember that this is the same man who took me out daily when I was feeling left out after my brother was born. He also bought me dolls to make sure I had a 'new baby' too.
He's the same man who now buys me Cacharel perfume from the duty-free shop every time he goes out of the country, and reads my academic articles when once, he read my fumbling teenage poetry.
Is it not surprising how, in the blur of day-to-day commitments, we often forget those who matter the most to us?
In the quest to celebrate special occasions with friends, how often do we stop to remember that these celebrations are also meant to be spent with our families?
SIMPLE CELEBRATION
It doesn't have to be elaborate, expensive or held overseas. It just has to be a time to get together.I remember papa's past 22 birthdays that we spent together, and that warm feeling of it being an important day for the most important man in my life.
Friends and lovers come and go, but deep in my heart, I know that be it a scraped knee or a broken heart, papa will always be there.
I think it's simply perfect that Valentine's Day also marks the birth of the man who, to me at least, personifies love.
Happy birthday in advance, papa, my Valentine forever.
The writer is an undergraduate in Political Science and South Asian studies from NUS.
Copyright © 2005 Singapore Press Holdings Ltd. Co. Regn. No. 198402868E. All rights reserved.Privacy Statement and Conditions of Access
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
HDB Woes
I’ve decided that I want the first house that I buy to be an HDB apartment. The decision was the simple and sensible part, I mean why not take the grants the government is giving? I might as well buy it before my income goes above $8000 and whole new sets of rules begin to apply. Even below $8000, the whole process is maddening!
When the decision is made, that you want a HDB, the first thing to decide would be if you want to get it with your partner (opposite sex only), or your parent, or are you old enough to apply for one on your own? Have I confused you yet, this was the easy part you see!
The next step involves figuring out which HDB you want? This is a two-fold process, first is it going to be anew flat (aka a shoebox), or would you prefer a much roomier, albeit older (and maybe haunted, murdered-in) resale flat? So then, there are the 1,2,3,4 and 5 room flats, not to mention the maisonettes, jumbo flats, executive apartments, executive condominiums and built-to-order units! Mind you, most of which only have three bedrooms anyway. Yes, a 5-room flat has 3 bedrooms, and a dining room and a utility room (does this make sense to you)?
Have I mentioned that each of the above mentioned category has a few sub categories? How about the 3 and 4NG (new generation) flats, the "normal" 3 and 4 room flats, and the whole host of others! 4-S, 4-A, 4-A1, 4-A2, 4-I, 5-S, 5-I, 5-A! The differences? Essentially, a few square centimetres!
Call a real estate agent, just have a normal conversation and tell her/him you’re interested in buying a flat, even before she begins counting her commission, she’ll drown you in questions you never knew existed, so obviously can not answer?
"Are you planning to buy a house within 2KM of your parents?" , "Uh, I don’t know, if I can get one…"
"Are you taking the $40,000 or $50,000 rebate?" , "can I have both?"
"Are you married?", "no… planning to"
When are you getting married?, "soon…"
"Is he Singaporean?", "uh…"
"What race is he?", "uh…"
She was firing questions faster than I could begin to answer them. I was just waiting for her to ask me what was my shoe size, but then she got down to money matters. First off, "how much do you earn", "and what is your partner’s salary".
By the time we had settled her questions and decided which part of Singapore (which suddenly seemed too big to me), I wanted to reside in, she told me she would begin to arrange viewings. Fine, so it was ok thus far, although I feel that my personal details are no longer mine (strange feeling for someone who writes about her life in the papers).
So she calls me the next day, and tells me that she has 4 flats open for viewing at Holland Village, before I can exclaim in joy and dig out my diary, she informs me "but ah, Indian cannot"!
Leaving me spluttering in dismay, she then tells me that actually there are no available flats open for sale to Indians, as the Indian quotas for that area are full! After a few such phone calls, I’ve surrendered. I told her to call me the next time there is an "Indian flat" open. After all, on my salary I think it might take a while to reach $8000, and since I’m not married, under 35 and don’t plan to apply for a flat with my parents, I have all the time in the world!
However, HDB does need to make itself far more friendly to the busy yuppie with little time to battle with estate agents who want to palm you the first flat you don’t say NO to. Perhaps HDB-accredited agents who receive commissions from HDB directly, so that they are more patient with clients?
Buying a house is often a dream come true, although I have time on my hands, the fact that my dream is beginning to be tinged with nightmarish aspects doesn’t please me!
When the decision is made, that you want a HDB, the first thing to decide would be if you want to get it with your partner (opposite sex only), or your parent, or are you old enough to apply for one on your own? Have I confused you yet, this was the easy part you see!
The next step involves figuring out which HDB you want? This is a two-fold process, first is it going to be anew flat (aka a shoebox), or would you prefer a much roomier, albeit older (and maybe haunted, murdered-in) resale flat? So then, there are the 1,2,3,4 and 5 room flats, not to mention the maisonettes, jumbo flats, executive apartments, executive condominiums and built-to-order units! Mind you, most of which only have three bedrooms anyway. Yes, a 5-room flat has 3 bedrooms, and a dining room and a utility room (does this make sense to you)?
Have I mentioned that each of the above mentioned category has a few sub categories? How about the 3 and 4NG (new generation) flats, the "normal" 3 and 4 room flats, and the whole host of others! 4-S, 4-A, 4-A1, 4-A2, 4-I, 5-S, 5-I, 5-A! The differences? Essentially, a few square centimetres!
Call a real estate agent, just have a normal conversation and tell her/him you’re interested in buying a flat, even before she begins counting her commission, she’ll drown you in questions you never knew existed, so obviously can not answer?
"Are you planning to buy a house within 2KM of your parents?" , "Uh, I don’t know, if I can get one…"
"Are you taking the $40,000 or $50,000 rebate?" , "can I have both?"
"Are you married?", "no… planning to"
When are you getting married?, "soon…"
"Is he Singaporean?", "uh…"
"What race is he?", "uh…"
She was firing questions faster than I could begin to answer them. I was just waiting for her to ask me what was my shoe size, but then she got down to money matters. First off, "how much do you earn", "and what is your partner’s salary".
By the time we had settled her questions and decided which part of Singapore (which suddenly seemed too big to me), I wanted to reside in, she told me she would begin to arrange viewings. Fine, so it was ok thus far, although I feel that my personal details are no longer mine (strange feeling for someone who writes about her life in the papers).
So she calls me the next day, and tells me that she has 4 flats open for viewing at Holland Village, before I can exclaim in joy and dig out my diary, she informs me "but ah, Indian cannot"!
Leaving me spluttering in dismay, she then tells me that actually there are no available flats open for sale to Indians, as the Indian quotas for that area are full! After a few such phone calls, I’ve surrendered. I told her to call me the next time there is an "Indian flat" open. After all, on my salary I think it might take a while to reach $8000, and since I’m not married, under 35 and don’t plan to apply for a flat with my parents, I have all the time in the world!
However, HDB does need to make itself far more friendly to the busy yuppie with little time to battle with estate agents who want to palm you the first flat you don’t say NO to. Perhaps HDB-accredited agents who receive commissions from HDB directly, so that they are more patient with clients?
Buying a house is often a dream come true, although I have time on my hands, the fact that my dream is beginning to be tinged with nightmarish aspects doesn’t please me!
Friday, January 05, 2007
Back-to-school!
It’s that time of year again, when malls are overflowing with children screaming that this year power-puff girls/astro-man are out of fashion and don’t the department stores have “desperate housewives” schoolbags? I’m not talking about gifts! I mean back-to-school shopping.
I have a younger, school-going brother, so trust me, I know how passionate children get about their school kits. My mom often remarks that in her day, having a schoolbag and not having to share (BATA brand) school shoes with siblings were already dreams come true. Not that I identify with that thought, but I do miss back-to-school shopping, yet I never wanted a desperate housewives schoolbag!
I loved going back to school, it meant going to the uniform store and trying on new sets of uniforms, the fondness for the smell of new clothes has not left me to this day. It was a moment in my life when I genuinely wanted to know that my dress size had increased and I was taller! The elderly Chinese lady in the yang-tze-kiang uniform shop would look me up and down and always pick out the correct size for me to try! Despite all the horrible things I thought about my uniform the rest of the year (shapeless, boring, etc), that one day, in the sparkling white shirt and rich navy pinafore, I loved my uniform.
Uniforms were followed by wrapping paper for books, stationery, a new bag for school, a lunch box and matching water bottle! The thrill I got while buying all this and then prohibiting myself from using it until the first day of school made me look forward intensely to school. There was something special about shopping for school, the thrill of wondering what your best friend is going to buy and how to pick things for yourself that you are the undoubted queen of waterbottles/schoolbags,etc.
The last stop on the big day was BATA. The term is still synonymous to me with school! Until a few years back, I was convinced that BATA was a local brand and only Singaporean children wore BATA shoes to school! Then I realised that many children from many different countries thought that BATA was solely theirs! What amazing branding!
The field is wider for schoolchildren these days, my brother’s main concern is whether Nike shoes are cool enough or should he buy (a third pair) of Adidas Climacools. Schools have since allowed track shoes to be worn and BATA shoes are no longer a must buy on the shopping list. When I was a kid the choices were limited to BATA with laces, or BATA with laces and a velcro strap.
I figure the magic of back-to-school shopping has changed, and I’ve become a relic, but hey, maybe it was more fun in “my time”. Our parents wanted the goods, we had them and so wanted them to have cute pictures, and the children who shop these days have dumped cute pictures in favour of cuter logos and heavier price tags. The magic I remember was not concerned with price, maybe the children of today understand things differently and their brand of magic can be bought.
I have a younger, school-going brother, so trust me, I know how passionate children get about their school kits. My mom often remarks that in her day, having a schoolbag and not having to share (BATA brand) school shoes with siblings were already dreams come true. Not that I identify with that thought, but I do miss back-to-school shopping, yet I never wanted a desperate housewives schoolbag!
I loved going back to school, it meant going to the uniform store and trying on new sets of uniforms, the fondness for the smell of new clothes has not left me to this day. It was a moment in my life when I genuinely wanted to know that my dress size had increased and I was taller! The elderly Chinese lady in the yang-tze-kiang uniform shop would look me up and down and always pick out the correct size for me to try! Despite all the horrible things I thought about my uniform the rest of the year (shapeless, boring, etc), that one day, in the sparkling white shirt and rich navy pinafore, I loved my uniform.
Uniforms were followed by wrapping paper for books, stationery, a new bag for school, a lunch box and matching water bottle! The thrill I got while buying all this and then prohibiting myself from using it until the first day of school made me look forward intensely to school. There was something special about shopping for school, the thrill of wondering what your best friend is going to buy and how to pick things for yourself that you are the undoubted queen of waterbottles/schoolbags,etc.
The last stop on the big day was BATA. The term is still synonymous to me with school! Until a few years back, I was convinced that BATA was a local brand and only Singaporean children wore BATA shoes to school! Then I realised that many children from many different countries thought that BATA was solely theirs! What amazing branding!
The field is wider for schoolchildren these days, my brother’s main concern is whether Nike shoes are cool enough or should he buy (a third pair) of Adidas Climacools. Schools have since allowed track shoes to be worn and BATA shoes are no longer a must buy on the shopping list. When I was a kid the choices were limited to BATA with laces, or BATA with laces and a velcro strap.
I figure the magic of back-to-school shopping has changed, and I’ve become a relic, but hey, maybe it was more fun in “my time”. Our parents wanted the goods, we had them and so wanted them to have cute pictures, and the children who shop these days have dumped cute pictures in favour of cuter logos and heavier price tags. The magic I remember was not concerned with price, maybe the children of today understand things differently and their brand of magic can be bought.
The article that made me (in)famous
Arts students should shape up or ship out
By Ratna Tiwary
December 02, 2006
THERE is constant discussion on campus about why graduates from the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences are unable to land jobs easily.
I read in the papers some months back about a woman lamenting her jobless fate as an arts honours graduate despite having submitted more than 2,000 applications.
As a final-year arts student, having already had many good offers, I am beginning to think that it's more about the lack of effort put in by undergraduates in looking for a job, or how they go about planning it.
I've done two internships while studying, both of which I found after sending my resume to several companies.
My friends asked why I needed to intern twice, and my answer was simple: Experience helps.
When I began applying for jobs in my last semester, they thought I was too kiasu, but I had the last laugh after landing a job.
On the one hand, I agree that many globally-ranked universities have excellent career placement programmes, something local universities are still trying to establish by widening and strengthening alumni relations - in the hope that alumni members will offer job opportunities to new graduates.
But how much longer will our students be spoon-fed everything?
The job market is expanding, but it seems that nothing is good enough for our fresh graduates, least of all arts graduates who expect reserved seats in the civil service.
I spoke to an assistant dean at the National University of Singapore for an interview I was conducting for the faculty newsletter last year, and his comments stayed with me.
He said that most arts graduates begin job hunting only after graduation, when the good positions have generally been taken by foreign-educated graduates or more proactive students.
The other problem is, few graduates bother dressing up for interviews, with many turning up in jeans or even shorts. Some students just do not bother, assuming their degree will 'take them places'.
Such an attitude not only reflects badly on them, but eventually, on the faculty and university as well. Which company would want to hire someone with no grooming skills?
Foreign students turn up for career talks and seminars in suits and ties; local students go in casual wear. For all the good intentions the alumni may have of hiring local students, can we blame them for taking on 'foreign talent'?
In mixed faculty classes, the ones who seldom complete assignments are generally arts students.
Unfortunately, these habits have carried over into working life for some students, and this minority has created an image of arts grads that others have to live down.
During an interview with a foreign publishing company, my interviewer was surprised to learn that I consciously chose to join the faculty, and not because I could not get into Law or Medicine.
I know of an arts undergrad who is pursuing her degree with less than half-hearted interest, doing a degree with the Association of Chartered Certified Accountants on the side, and a dance diploma as a backup. According to her, she's doing this merely to be known as an NUS grad.
These students are a minority, but that doesn't mean they can be ignored.
The university ought to assess the capabilities of its students and their aptitude for the arts field before granting them admittance.
There are already interview procedures in place for borderline students wishing to enter the faculty; and although I can see logistical difficulties, I think this procedure should be extended to all students applying for the faculty.
I take pride in my degree, and I know that I have worked for it. It was a choice I made to pursue a career in the arts field.
How many of my fellow final-year university mates can say as much?
By Ratna Tiwary
December 02, 2006
THERE is constant discussion on campus about why graduates from the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences are unable to land jobs easily.
I read in the papers some months back about a woman lamenting her jobless fate as an arts honours graduate despite having submitted more than 2,000 applications.
As a final-year arts student, having already had many good offers, I am beginning to think that it's more about the lack of effort put in by undergraduates in looking for a job, or how they go about planning it.
I've done two internships while studying, both of which I found after sending my resume to several companies.
My friends asked why I needed to intern twice, and my answer was simple: Experience helps.
When I began applying for jobs in my last semester, they thought I was too kiasu, but I had the last laugh after landing a job.
On the one hand, I agree that many globally-ranked universities have excellent career placement programmes, something local universities are still trying to establish by widening and strengthening alumni relations - in the hope that alumni members will offer job opportunities to new graduates.
But how much longer will our students be spoon-fed everything?
The job market is expanding, but it seems that nothing is good enough for our fresh graduates, least of all arts graduates who expect reserved seats in the civil service.
I spoke to an assistant dean at the National University of Singapore for an interview I was conducting for the faculty newsletter last year, and his comments stayed with me.
He said that most arts graduates begin job hunting only after graduation, when the good positions have generally been taken by foreign-educated graduates or more proactive students.
The other problem is, few graduates bother dressing up for interviews, with many turning up in jeans or even shorts. Some students just do not bother, assuming their degree will 'take them places'.
Such an attitude not only reflects badly on them, but eventually, on the faculty and university as well. Which company would want to hire someone with no grooming skills?
Foreign students turn up for career talks and seminars in suits and ties; local students go in casual wear. For all the good intentions the alumni may have of hiring local students, can we blame them for taking on 'foreign talent'?
In mixed faculty classes, the ones who seldom complete assignments are generally arts students.
Unfortunately, these habits have carried over into working life for some students, and this minority has created an image of arts grads that others have to live down.
During an interview with a foreign publishing company, my interviewer was surprised to learn that I consciously chose to join the faculty, and not because I could not get into Law or Medicine.
I know of an arts undergrad who is pursuing her degree with less than half-hearted interest, doing a degree with the Association of Chartered Certified Accountants on the side, and a dance diploma as a backup. According to her, she's doing this merely to be known as an NUS grad.
These students are a minority, but that doesn't mean they can be ignored.
The university ought to assess the capabilities of its students and their aptitude for the arts field before granting them admittance.
There are already interview procedures in place for borderline students wishing to enter the faculty; and although I can see logistical difficulties, I think this procedure should be extended to all students applying for the faculty.
I take pride in my degree, and I know that I have worked for it. It was a choice I made to pursue a career in the arts field.
How many of my fellow final-year university mates can say as much?
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