Jet—is this airline really set?

Okay, this isn’t an insidious effort at creating a rather tacky tagline; what it is, is a reflection of my inner turmoil. Here is why: I have always been a stalwart supporter of Jet Airways. Like most other Indians, I was both jubilant and beholden (to the airline God?) when Jet Airways started their Newark to Bombay non-stop flight on August 5th. Granted I wasn’t delighted about the exclusion of JFK, but hey, this was a sign for things to come. The august presence of my favorite “desi” airline in the skies – imagine it whizzing through euphonious brume and over Brobdingnagian oceans. For those of you who watch “Scrubs”, the main character and narrator, J.D., lapses into his day-dreaming mode every now and then. The action is archaic and trite but beguiling at the same time. So, I digressed and had a J.D. moment.

Here is how the story commences: my in-laws decided to fly Jet Airways when they visited us this past August. It seemed like the perfect choice—elite airline, professional crew well—versed with the needs of Indian parents, scrumptious food (at least in the domestic sector) and most importantly, great flying time. If I am not wrong, with the stopover in Brussels, the flying time is only 16 hours. Almost magical! I remember thinking to myself, “this is incredible-- an airline for the people by the people. Like India’s democracy.” Okay, another J.D. moment. Anyways, upon their arrival, elatedly I asked my in-laws about their “Jet Airways” experience. They expressed their immense dissatisfaction with the airline.

When my in-laws reached Bombay a couple of days ago, I asked them about their Jet Airways experience on their flight back home. I was hoping against hope that Jet wouldn’t let me down. Au contraire to popular belief, my vivid imagination and Jet Airway’s magnificent reputation back in India, the service in the international sector is appalling. The staff was conceited, inattentive and arrogant and their service was abysmal. They barely served meals and that too meager portion; they were inconsiderate of any special dietary guidelines you provided them with at the time of the ticket purchase; finally, they had the audacity to be condescending.

Well, they call themselves the “finest airline in Asia” while their attitude is reflective of the “lowest budget airline in the world”. What an oxymoron!

I wonder why Jet Airways has positioned itself like a thrifty traveler’s international airline. Have they not been able to dissociate themselves from Jet Light (the brand extension created after Jet Airways acquired Sahara Airlines)?

I do not know about others, but I am not feeling too much love for this particular airline at this time and hope I do not ever have to fly it internationally. A random quote comes to mind as I near the end of my post -- "There may be 50 ways to leave your lover, but there are only 4 ways out of this airplane."


Copyright © 09.27.2007

If you don’t fast, will your husband die?

On Friday evening, I had gone out for aperitif with few of my co-workers to a cozy roof-top place in the vicinity of my office. It was a clammy evening so the Mojitos tasted like the “Holy Grail”. Needless to say, it was a fine soirée with a fascinating bunch of people. Since I had friends coming over for dinner that evening, I had to bid adieu to my work friends early. As it was time for me to leave, one person suggested going out again on Friday, September 14th. Here starts the story -- I explained the reason for my unavailability—“I have to fast on Friday. It’s almost a 36-hour long fast for my husband’s long life”. As I said that, I realized the faux pas in the statement. It was then that I realized that I almost felt like a sorceress—almost omnipotent. Have we (as in all Hindu women who fast for their husband’s good health and long life) been bestowed upon with these divine powers which I thought only the almighty had—the ability to be the creator and the ruler of the universe?

My riveting explanation got a second jolt when one of my co-workers, with utmost homage, astonishment, bewilderment and intrigue asked me “will your husband die if you don’t fast for him?” There is one thing I can vouch for my self-- I am rarely at a loss of words. More often than not, I have the response to the most Herculean questions. That evening, I was tongue-tied.

I have been more than candid about my reservations with these patriarchal traditions in today’s ever-evolving day and age. I emphasize on “today’s day and age” because these customs made sense centuries ago when male and female species had defined roles—the former was the bread-winner; the latter the home-maker. In today’s world, their lifestyles are very similar—they both go to work; in most cases, a woman does more chores around the house; not to forget, at least in South Asian culture, she is the source of bond for families on both sides. Yet, she is expected to fast for her husband’s “long life” and then for some inexplicable reason, cook a delectable meal to commemorate the occasion? Nice going! Shouldn’t men give obeisance to us splendid women instead?

My other issues with it—I have seen and interacted with enough women who are complete control freaks and figuratively speaking, have a rope tied around their husband’s neck. They nag and croak like a toad, spurting out furious words, day after day but won’t indulge in a sip of water when they keep these fasts. Isn’t that an oxymoron? Call me a skeptic, but I willing to bet my next paycheck on their husband’s willingness to live. Not just that, I have met enough couples where the husband treats his wife with utmost disrespect and her life seems like a cul-de-sac. Do you really want to pray for this monster’s well-being who treats you macabrely? Well, I’d be thinking voodoo kits. Then you come across the third category where the woman is ailing and on medication yet insists on abstention. So, the health had been failing for years; the coup de grâce was the water deprivation?

Maybe my opinion makes me sound like agent provocateur, but neither am I superstitious nor am I the kind to say c'est la vie. I believe both tradition and religion are not above humanity. You need to have faith to truly follow either. If keeping a 36-hour long fast doesn’t fall in tune with your own belief system, you shouldn’t do it; if it is something that you believe in, then nobody shop stop you. Hypocrisy, superstition and societal pressure shouldn’t be the reason.

Copyright © 09.11.2007

“Society exists only as a mental concept; in the real world there are only individuals” - Oscar Wilde

Soi-disant - Am I traversing through vegetarianism?

I know this post will chagrin my family deeply. I get this image of them feeling almost abashed with their jaws dropping in despair, disgust and helplessness—kind of like “what did we do wrong?” It’s like I turned my back on my own. Okay, I did exaggerate a little there. See, my family is not umbrageous or malevolent, but it is full of soigné, comestible lovers who not only attach importance to good food but extol their ability to procure the best that’s out there. Meat definitely falls very high on their list. Most members of my family love animals, BUT dead, on their plate.

Elucidation for my epiphany: Even as a kid, I was never fond of red meat. In India, goat meat is considered a legacy (meat connoisseurs apprize it) and considered enormously popular. I recall squirming and telling my mom, “It tastes too real—like an animal”. I have vivid memories of my cousins sucking and masticating onto the bone marrow (remember, it’s a legacy). It was unintentional, but I would get queasy at the sight of them holding a bone; forget them gormandizing on it. One of my cousins’ would literally chomp on the chicken leg as if it was the flesh of the animal that he was indulging in and before you knew it, his hands would be empty. I found it extremely barbaric, but I guess he relished it.

With age and time, I have become more cognizant about how pernickety I am about non-vegetarian food and how easy it is for me to feel disgusted. One of my closest friends calls me a “fake non-vegetarian” since my list of “what grosses me out” supersedes “what gives me pleasure.” Here is what I can’t deal with when it comes to non-vegetarian food:

Red Meat
Animal meat with bones—only boneless for me.
Processed Meat
Ground/Minced Meat
Non-veg with even the remotest hint of “the animal taste” in it.
Washing any kind of non-vegetarian item
Chopping up boneless

Doesn’t quite leave much, does it?

I have to admit: my alacrity to watch “Fast Food Nation” and “Super-Size Me” has augmented my existing contemplation. When you see what goes on in the animal slaughter world (the cruelty, the debasement and the abuse), you get coerced into second guessing yourself. Is ignorance bliss? Having said that I want to make a confession-- few chicken entrées have a certain je ne sais quoi that I find very appealing -- “butter chicken,” “chilli chicken,” “boneless buffalo wings” and “chicken lollipop.”

I was wondering if there is anyone else out there going through the same dilemma and confusion.

Copyright © 09.06.2007

"I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead" - Oscar Wilde

Quest to make planet Earth “idiot-free”

Destination: Mars
What is it: a wish list
Purpose: to extradite humans who abandon the usage of their brain
Why Mars: proof-Martian soil may contain life
Relocation: paid for by the people of Earth
Reason: call it philanthropy

I had the fortune of reading this alluring article on CNN.com the other day that gave me delusive contentment. It was about how the soil on Mars may contain microbial life. According to Joop Houtkooper of the University of Giessen, Germany, Mars could be home to just "extremophiles" -- in this case, microbes whose cells are filled with a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and water, providing them with natural anti-freeze. They would be quite capable of surviving a harsh Martian climate where temperatures rarely rise above freezing and can fall to minus 150 degrees Celsius.

Scientific talk aside, this article offers the perfect remedy for dealing with people who chafe your nerves—say tsetchem leshalom, proscribe them to Mars and let them revel in the Martian climate. Maybe the excrutiating algid temperatures will thaw their frozen gray cells? These idiots can spend eternity in Martian land and we Earth-dwellers can peacefully go about our daily chores.

Call it my pollyanna notions about making the world “idiot-free,” but I have been working on a list of people who should be said hasta la vista to and shipped to Mars. It will not be a perilous voyage in a canoe across space; I was thinking more like an official send off with fanfare and they can create their own “Idiotland”.

My recommended list:

1. Britney Spears—relinquished her brains (for Kevin Federline) and so the remnant amount needs to be deliquesced
2. Paris Hilton—lost her brains to rhinoplasty
3. George Bush—the lesser said the better it is
4. Dick Cheney- Bush would need an amigo on Mars—kinda like homies
5. Will Ferrell—to him, encephalon is an entrée offered at Saigon Taste
6. Jaya Bachan—prolonged viciousness has had deleterious effects on her brain
7. Kangana Renaut—this wanna be egghead can’t spell brain—not because she is autistic; but because she is still striving to evolve into human form.
8. Bal Thackeray—we have had enough; the extremophiles on Mars should live with his iniquitous deeds
9. Rakhi Sawant— silicone implants have aggrandized the pressure on her pea-sized brain and turned it into a vestigial organ like the appendix.
10. Pamela Anderson – someone needs to float on Mars
11. Mallika Sherawat - her ebullience is a sign of her brain on Prozac
12. Lindsay Lohan – dude, she has no brains.
    

Disclaimer:- This is not a final list of people who should be exiled to Mars; names can be deleted (I highly doubt it) and/or added at any time.:-)

Copyright © 08.31.2007

“The human brain starts working the moment you are born and never stops until you stand up to speak in public” - George Jessel

Can you take India out of an Indian?

The last few days have been a pleasant ride into patriotism land. Literally, all activities that I indulged in have been reminiscent of propitious weather and reeked of India – like the sweet smell of mud that lingers on providing all with a snug blanket of warmth, when it’s bestowed upon with the first monsoon of the season.

A ride into my desi emotions: Last week, I went for a book reading by Anupama Chopra. Her new book is on the “King of Bollywood” aka Shahrukh Khan. The evening was remarkable—small get together, invigorating aperitifs and delectable hors d'oeuvre. The reception was rather stately and the venue, baronial. I soaked in as much South Asian cultural heritage as a human possibly could, in one grand evening. Chopra, a petite, mirthful, cogent and cordial film critic and book author, was basking more in Indian glory than her own eminence. When someone asked her if Indian directors were going to make movies that basically catered to people in the west, with utmost grace and stellar confidence she responded in the negative. She reiterated that Bollywood is content with the audience it has at present and doesn't feel the need to alter its style to cater to a new audience. She also confirmed that Sony Entertainment is coming to Bollywood and making a movie “Bollywood-ishtyle”. She veraciously spurted out these words in a non-grandiose way even though a big chunk of the population comprised of Caucasians.

Ride two: On Friday, few of my friends and I went to watch the newly released Hindi movie, “Chak De”. If you haven’t seen it already, I would absolutely recommend watching it. I had no idea that a simple movie about women’s hockey could stir up such strong allegiant emotions and evoke an intense response. Absolutely splendid!

To be candid, on one hand, I love where I live now; on the other, I apprize India with my heart and soul. Every year around the Indian Independence day, I feel unrest and turmoil. Today is India’s 60th Independence Day and that makes me nostalgic. I remember the flag hoisting to free sweet distribution to the patriotic songs that we would sing as kids.

I am not the kind to display my emotions in public but irrespective of where I am, the Indian national anthem gets me misty eyed. It touches that cord which nothing else does. I truly believe you can take an Indian out of India but not India out of an Indian.

Any thoughts?

Copyright © 08.15.2007


"Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious" - Oscar Wilde

The perfect “break-up” restaurant in New York City

You know, I can’t imagine anyone ever planning a “fun” evening at an eye sore restaurant where the food looks like a by product of pollution and commotion and service is reminiscent of what prisoners of war had to face -- unless of course you are heartlessly dumping someone. For such an uneventful occasion, you want a cacophonous restaurant where the noise created by mumbling of humans and clanking of dishes drowns away hurtful words or abuses—depending on whether you are at the giving end or receiving end. Another charm of such a restaurant is that you do not lose amour-propre-- savorless food acts as a brilliant disguise for your emotions in public places—no one can tell the difference between “my heart hurts,” cry or “the food is appalling,” cry.

Anyway, a few nights ago a bunch of us had organized a soiree for an essential element of our coterie, a dear friend who was moving to Far East Asia (thankfully for a short and defined period). We made reservations at this much-recommended restaurant -- Chennai Gardens in the Murray Hill area of New York City. The restaurant has won raving reviews – maybe the owner paid someone for those words dipped in honeydew? It sounded like fallacious testimony. Before I delve into the happenings of that evening, I’d like to say something -- the only thing commendable about Chennai Gardens was the location.

An insight into the evening: we were a group of eight out of which one person wasn't eating; he was the "food guardian"— kind of like a restaurant angel looking over us and our comestible. Believe me, after the abominable experience at this restaurant, we needed his services. Anyway, seven people ordered appetizers and beverages and guess what—the rocket science behind order taking completely shocked the waiters; they goofed up. The staff was not really au fait with our needs. After persistent reminders, the flabbergasted staff finally managed to make an effort and bring out the remaining appetizer. They didn’t let us down; when it was time for our entrees, they made an aberration. Not only did they get our order wrong, but in their own way, were indignant about rectifying their mistake. Not to forget, the “over-salted sambar” looked and tasted like murky water. The table arrangement was bedraggled and the lesser said about the presentation, the better it is. All I can tell you is that Martha Stewart would never approve of this place.

I am never impertinent to staff at any restaurant—it’s not just the fear of them spitting in my food (yes it happens), but I genuinely appreciate their services. Living away from India has made me all the more appreciative of labor and services. Had it been a regular dinner out with friends, I would have not been so upset, but this was a special evening and the unprofessionalism and boorish behavior exhibited by the village idiots at the restaurant, was unforgivable.

My recommendation: go to Chennai Gardens only if you are breaking up with someone you loathe as the abysmal service and unpalatable food can make the process easier for you. If you want convivial atmosphere, a kebab vendor would be a better option as compared to this banal restaurant.

Copyright © 08.12.2007

"After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relatives." Oscar Wilde

Who Gets My Vote?

I just got back from the most tranquil vacation of my life. My trip to Dubai/India was so therapeutic. I was in La-La Land engulfed in the warmth of my family, clique, delectable food and incessant chirpiness of the help at home. I guess my index fingers are so used to giving direction (in an authoritative way) that they are clueless about their other usage. That part of the world does reduce your limb mobility.

Interestingly enough, majority of the people I met with, read my blog and happened to very graciously appreciate it. I was rather flattered. Depending on the incidents, they all had their suggestions on what my next post should be on: three-hour wait at State Bank of India to change currency (Go Figure!); the party thrown by my parents in my honor where my cousins and I indulged in a “chilli chicken” gormandizing competition; gossip about blatherskite in the family; this porcine teenager cum spoilt house guest at my friend’s who was comatose from carrying around a lot of excess avoirdupois; to the bizarre travelers – one of them was a pre-pubescent loser at JFK whose wife kept professing her eternal love for him as if he was a warrior going into battle or the prison of Azkaban. Apparently he was going away on a four-day long business trip. Back up! Seriously, four-days aren’t long; they are unfair. You are really not giving anyone a break!!! After a lot of contemplation, here is what I decided to write about – the airline I flew.

I am a sucker for self-defined and Dow Jones rated “good airlines”. After all, you can’t quite compromise on the quality of travel when it comes to a 16-hour flight given that I fly cattle class (economy). I think its incumbent upon us to make the right choice of airline. Whenever possible, I fly “Singapore Airlines” (SQ). You can’t beat Asian hospitality (and food?) Anyhow, this time around, due to lack of time, I decided to take a shorter route and yet fly a highly ranked airline. My choice was “Emirates”. After all, it is ranked just second to SQ.

Well, my first impression of Emirates – international crowd of svelte stewardess and well-sculpted stewards who knew their jobs. What won me over were the victuals. They totally smother you with this array of entrees and dessert until your stomach starts howling for help. It breaks my heart to admit this but SQ doesn’t hold a candle to the variety offered by Emirates. However, the service on SQ is incomparable. The crew is more cordial on SQ and the passengers are dapper. The one major thing that bothered me about Emirates was the crowd. It is infiltrated with proletariat crowd whose sense of speech and plebeian mannerisms get adversely affected after indulging in free alcohol. I had the “fortune” of sitting between two those unearthly men on my way to Dubai. All that I can tell you is that I didn’t catch a wink or drink a sip of wine. These hoi polloi actually spread a pack of cards on the airline floor and literally hooted every time a stewardess walked by.

I confess; I am a flight snob who behaves like an anti-social element the minute I get my boarding pass. My airline personality is starkly different from my regular personality.

Having said that, I feel Emirates might be considered a mighty fine airline if you are traveling business class or with a familiar group. Otherwise, the crowd is reminiscent of jail break and mass exodus from Alcatraz. SQ caters more to a bourgeois set. SQ, you definitely have my vote for letting me feel safe!

Copyright © 08.09.2007