Season’s Greetings and have a happy and prosperous New Year.

This is the last posting for the year 2010. I do hope you enjoyed the variety and will continue to visit the site.

Reducing the Clutter

When Ravi protested at all the work involved in ‘reducing the clutter’ as he called it Monica had an unanswerable point; they were at an age when ‘getting rid of the junk’ as she called it assumes the top priority. They did not know when they would be forced by the circumstances of poor health, or worse, to move in a hurry to a smaller home. “In the worst case scenario, it will not be fair for the girls to be cleaning up the mess when we are not leaving much of an inheritance,” she said to clinch the argument. She added, “It behooves us to get rid of the stuff we have stored through the ages thinking that we or the children might need it some day. Children had taken what they could use; grandchildren are too young to need any thing for several years.” Ravi thought about it but eventually agreed. They decided that the appliances, nice clothes, tools, jewellery, ornaments, electronic equipment, paintings and photographs, excess furniture, whatever it is, if it is of no use to them it has to go. How to do it though? They did not even think of the garage sale, it was too much work in one go for a couple of their age. To get the ball rolling, they put smaller of these things on the lawn when the weather was good with a sign “TAKE IT IF YOU CAN USE IT” and they often disappeared in a day or two. However, the good weather is rare in their part of the world and disposing large items is a problem any time of the year.

They had a twenty year old full-size refrigerator which worked well and did not show its age. There was a large desk, a credenza and a couple of book shelves all in excellent shape. Numerous phone calls to charities were either not returned or received a negative response. Ads on trading websites were also negative. In the end Ravi piled up in the garage these and several other articles Monica thought no one will need and some that were beyond repair. He called a big burly guy with a dump truck to haul them all to the city refuse station for a modest fee of a few hundred dollars. This did make a dent in their possessions albeit only a small one, much smaller than the dent in the wall refrigerator made while being moved. The cupboards were not even remotely bare, cars could still not be parked in the garage and it was as difficult to locate an item in the two storage rooms as it had always been. They realized that one big job was out of the way, but one out of hundreds! It was time for stage 2.

Monica stacked on the living room floor numerous items they were fond of and thought it would be nice if some one could use them – grandchildren’s bikes, some nice furniture for example. Ravi put detailed ads with good photographs on two trading websites with mixed results. In the process, he learnt a lot about selling on these sites. Lesson 1, you must have a good picture, no pic no reply. Even when there is a good picture and a detailed description in the ad, the deal typically progresses as follows: You receive an email response, “It is great. I want it. Call me at xxxxxxxxxxx and I will collect it.” You call, no response, leave a message. Later in the day the phone rings. Long conversation about the item, detailed questions with appropriate replies and with, “Oh my table is six feet, will it work?” You reply, “No sir, it will not. Table has to be five feet long as it says in the ad” and go back to what you were doing before the interruption.

Lesson 2, agreement on price followed by the detailed instructions on how to get to your place does not mean that the item is sold. You wait for nothing most of the time. Even when you have priced the items as giveaways, do not expect normal courtesies like punctuality or a message to inform you of change in plans. Lesson 3, do not expect to sell at a reasonable price on these sites. Buyers are looking for a steal and there are many owners who are happy to give away the items simply to get rid of them. However, do not advertise them for free, it raises suspicion and no one will take them. There is some probability of disposing the item at a low price, none at all at a reasonable price or for free. Finally, only justification for the trouble of placing the ad, watching for replies, negotiating the final price and helping with loading is in consolation that your beloved objects will get used. You also save the trouble and cost of sending them to the dump.

The process of lightening up on possessions is not all frustration. There are occasional compensations. For instance, Monica identified the pieces of equipment that needed minor repairs and got them fixed. Among these items were four baby violins they had acquired thirty or so years ago when the girls were little and the doting parents had the visions of the girls being present day versions of Clara Schumann and Fanny Mendelssohn. It was not to be and the girls found other fields to distinguish in. The violins sat in the cupboard along with other musical paraphernalia like old scores and music stands till discovered last spring. Monica looked at them fondly, vacuumed off the layers of dust and suggested donating them to some worthy institution. A phone call to the Conservatory was enough to get Ravi moving. He found out that repairs and tuning had to be done before they would be accepted as donation but the donation in kind receipt would probably save enough in taxes to cover this cost. It took six months for Mr. Hill, the luthier, to get round to finishing his job but he did it last week and they will be able to claim the tax deduction this year.

There does not seem to be a satisfactory way to dispose off the usable goods no longer needed in our prosperous society. Recycling at Electronic Recycling Depot is probably better than the dump but does not appear right for a fully operational microwave oven or a tuner. Is the Used Items Bank an idea whose time has come?

Use and Misuse of Internet

The transmission of data with the speed of light in digital form on cables and through the air has changed the way we live. We do not send long letters describing our emotions in flowery language, we titter. We do not send our family pictures to friends we put them on the Facebook for every one to admire our cute children and grandchildren. We do not read books or newspapers to expand our knowledge base we google for what we should know but do not. Every thing we wanted to know even the things no one cares about, is on the internet. The event is available to our screens the instant it occurred and anyone in the world can know about it with a few clicks on the mouse. Whatever the information distribution is, it is not a cat and mouse game that it once was when print media barons competed to attract attention and pennies of prospective readers.

I am glad that I can see the latest scientific research, life-saving advances in medicine, deeds and misdeeds of our leaders, great works of art and literature and learn why the knowledgeable experts think these works are worth our study. Internet provides a great service in this respect. But this is not all it provides.

Internet also provides forum for the opinions of any one who cares to express them on any number of ‘sites’ provided by various agencies whose interests are not always above board. There is no need to have any knowledge, leave alone careful research and analysis, before raw thoughts are sent out for others to regurgitate. These unbaked opinions of often ignorant individuals carry the same weight in an internet search as those of scholars who have devoted their lives studying the subject. The ‘reader’ has no way to judge which opinion has merit and which is worthless. He is free to choose what suits his prejudices and then pontificate on it. Moreover, gullible viewers are sometimes persuaded by silly opinions expressed with authority and they either suffer serious harm or waste time and resources of the professional helping them.

If I write an essay on Mahler’s Second Symphony and put it on my blog not much harm can come out of it even if the contents are a baseless rant. If I put my opinion on a politician on the blog, it is acceptable so long as it criticizes his political deeds and does not intrude in his private affairs. But when I express my opinion on a professional engineer, financial consultant, medical practitioner or a lawyer, particularly when my comments include evaluation of the person’s knowledge and competence, my qualifications are crucial in judging the merits of this evaluation. A layman can say that a physician’s office is crowded or his staff rude, but pronouncements on the lack of knowledge or diagnostic skills must be out of bounds. Each profession has a governing body that regulates its members and if there is any reason to doubt someone’s competence, it should be contacted. Calling a professional incompetent or ignorant on a ‘rateprofessional’ website may be good for the ego but it is a disservice not only to the professional but also to the individuals who are dissuaded to benefit from his/her expertise. What makes such websites even more repugnant is how easy it is to misuse them. A disgruntled employee with a vendetta can orchestrate a series of bogus entries on the website to send his victim’s rating to the bottom and cause serious dent in the reputation of an innocent professional who has no recourse and no way to undo the damage. The attitude of the website operators is even more infuriating. They believe that humiliating hardworking people in public service careers is a noble mission and derive vicarious pleasure in inflicting it.

For internet to be a blessing some restrictions are necessary. First, just as the print media has editors and fact-checkers who reject trivial material and maintain reasonable level of quality in what is published, internet must install filters to stop false statements from reaching our screens. Second, media is constrained by legal considerations and the operators of websites need to be subjected to libel laws. Third, the name and qualifications of the blogger, or lack thereof, must be prominently displayed with the material they have produced. A simple action like a general ban on anonymous contributions will improve the utility of internet material considerably.

Let us hope the WikiLeaks fiasco will introduce some restraints on internet sites either voluntary or imposed by the authorities. Current ‘democratic’ system has gone berserk. The situation is not a desirable from any perspective and should not be allowed to continue.

Neither Fat nor Slim Brownie

That short, fat, bald, brownie. Yes, my best client was referring to me when he thought I was out of the range of his booming voice. I never found out whether it was said to show contempt for my origins or with some fondness. Not that it really mattered. It was accurate even if a sensitive person may have found it offensive. I later used it to describe myself in a letter to the local newspaper and the editor used it with glee.

Strange though it may sound to you I was not always short, nor fat nor bald though I have been a brownie since I opened my left eye as a newborn. I was never tall but of a little more than average height when growing up in India. I became short the day I landed in the West. I started fattening when meat became a vital part of my diet soon after acquiring the short stature. My curly black hair started falling off the day I fell in love. When I immigrated to Canada a few years later, short, fat, bald brownie is what I was. If I wanted to be something else, I should have gone back to India with my tall, slender, blonde, white wife who would have stood out there like a sore thumb.

I did not mind the moniker but had to get rid of it on my doctor’s rather firm advice. During my last check up she pointed out, a little harshly I thought and it did hurt my feelings, that I had become shorter by four centimeters and heavier by five kilograms. Dr. Shepherd, who is always greatly concerned with the well-being of her flock, instructed me with all the gravity at her command to lose several kilograms in weight unless I could find a way of recouping the lost centimeters and some. Since the later was not possible, and I would be at the shepherd’s door again before long, losing weight assumed a high priority. There was another reason for urgent action. Shorter, fatter, totally bald and very dark brownie doesn’t roll off the tongue all that well and something had to be done to restore order in my life.

No lunches at our favourite Indian restaurant – only way to avoid the temptations of ten kinds of delicious curries soaking in fat. No desserts after dinner – may be a mango or an apple but not as a pie and certainly not a la mode. Snacks must be low sugar, no salt. Tea down to two measly cups a day. No more creamy homogenized milk in my breakfast of granola, it had to be skimmed. No butter on toast. A tall glass of water at regular intervals followed by frequent visits to the washroom became a routine. The life was dull, hardly worth living for a food junkie like me but it had to be lived. Thankfully, the sacrifices bore fruit. Soon the waist line began to shrink. After a year, I was still short, hair hadn’t grown on the head although it did grow where it shouldn’t and shade of my skin had stayed the same, may have become a little darker even. But I was not fat although no one would call me slim.

My client was not happy. I was no longer ‘that short, fat, bald brownie’. He couldn’t call me ‘short and bald brownie’, it doesn’t feel good; ‘short, no longer fat, bald, brownie’ sounds contrived. One afternoon it occurred to me that his unhappiness may have nothing to do with my appearance. It may have been because I no longer had enough weight to throw around in the meetings and therefore failed to win support for my proposals. My words no longer carried weight.

I do not know if my tall, elegant client spent much time in thinking of some other name to use behind my back He did come up with one. Only the other day I heard him say, “that short, bald, good for nothing brownie.” English being my second language I have trouble with hints. But this one is clear as a bell and even I can’t miss it. I realize that my days in this outfit are numbered and I need a new client. Do you know of any company looking for a consultant who happens to be a short, neither fat nor slim, bald, brownie?

Collapsing Economies and Commodity Cycles

Commodity prices have a huge role in causing economic collapse and recovery, much more than outside help and government actions. When commodity prices are low, weaker of the developing countries are in trouble but they recover when prices of what they grow and produce pick up. This happened in Brazil and Indonesia. On the other hand, at this stage of cycle industrial activity is profitable and the economies in developed countries prosper, consumer spending is high and bubbles form in some of these places. When the commodity prices improve, pendulum swings the other way and some of these bubbles burst. The best solution is to wait for prices pendulum to swing back, as it always does, and in the meantime take just enough action to tide over. Ireland, Spain and Portugal will be OK if they can manage to survive current price cycle for oil, steel, copper etc. What saved UK in late seventies was oil discovery not anything Maggie did. Britain's current problems are at least partly due to declining North Sea production. Ireland's problems arose from property market collapse because bubbles collapse if they are not continuously pumped. The pumping stopped because sustained high commodity prices drained overseas investment funds out of the real estate in Ireland into mining and oil sectors in Canada, Australia and Africa. The commodity prices will turn down sooner rather than later, then smart money will move out of resources into real estate and manufacturing in the desperate European countries of today and they will be laughing till the pendulum swings again.

If we want to eliminate the boom and burst cycles we have to remove commodity price cycles. I have no idea on how to achieve this except that they would be dampened if hedge funds were somehow controlled.

We Need WikiLeaks

WikiLeaks is getting a lot of press for publishing secret documents that confirm what most people suspected, if not believed, all along. Afghan government is corrupt: which government is not; it is a matter of degree. NATO soldiers have killed civilians: when was the last war in which civilians were not killed; before the Stone Age. Politicians and diplomats have been saying one thing while doing something else: since when have they told correctly what they had done; not since the forbidden apple episode.

So what is all this fuss about? I suggest that it is because the people caught lying are still in positions of power and the exposed lies are not something in the past long gone but relate to the current events. To put it starkly, the voters have short memories and bring themselves to think that their leaders are not out and out liars. Not only the leaked papers are raising issues which our leaders would rather not face, they are also reawakening the voters’ suspicions and the reelection of esteemed leaders is being put in danger.

Politicians are self-centred and focused solely on gaining and retaining power. They have reacted to published confidential archives as one would have expected. What saddens me is the position taken by some in the responsible media that lying on this scale is justified either to protect the sources of information which are vital for our welfare or for strategic reasons. Indeed, there are cases where ignoring the truth may be tolerated, but who does it help when the shaky leadership of an obviously non-functioning state – Pakistan in this case – is defended, indeed bribed by billions of borrowed dollars, to achieve ends which conflict with the professed goals of the leaders of the army and the doddering political apparatus of that country, none of which speaks for the population? Who is helped by misrepresentation of how the war is going in Afghanistan? Who is helped by confusing representations of Iran situation when much more belligerent and unruly states like North Korea and afore-mentioned Pakistan, not to mention Israel, already have the dreaded nuclear weapons? Who is helped by one-sided discussions of Palestine problem? Not an average citizen, neither in developed West nor in the developing Rest. Only people who are helped by these deceptions are the lying and cheating leaders who get elected by promising what they know they can’t deliver.

It should not surprise any one that Julian Assange and WikiLeaks are being hounded by the agencies of the U.S. government and the pressure will be put on businesses to dissociate from them. But why would the media join in this persecution? Exposing the lies, wherever they originate, is what the free press is about. I would have thought that the journalists would be generally supportive of all efforts to bring out the truth rather than condemning it with unprecedented unison. Are we so afraid of the truth, or is the truth so unpleasant, that the populace has to be protected from being exposed to it lest they all have heart attacks and die? Since no one has suffered such fate from what we have seen so far, I tend to think that the storm is of little consequence. Before long it will all be forgotten and the lies and cover up will continue unabated unless some brave souls are willing to take great risk and protect us from the misdeeds of leaders by bringing their behind the scenes machinations in the open. If the media will not do it we need the likes of Julian Assange and his cohorts at WikiLeaks. All power to them.

A Moroccan Holiday

Evelyn and I spent eighteen day in November on a short vacation, a mix of visiting old and dear friends, business for Evelyn and cultural pilgrimage to Bilbao in Spain and, to cap it all, Fes in Morocco. Our first stop was London. We spent two days in North London with our friend from Libyan days. Sharron and Chris are wonderful people we like sharing life experiences with. The memorable event of our time with them was attending a performance of Tennessee Williams’ Glass menagerie, an excellent play superbly presented. We visited Hempstead Heath, the famous park which has been a favourite of British writers for centuries. The Kenwood House Art Gallery is located in the park and houses a superb collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century art. Then we moved to Gravesend just south of London to stay for two more days with Evelyn’s childhood friend Anne and her husband Phillip, both academics of great distinction. They are the type of people with whom you leave the personal problems behind and argue about the serious issues facing the world. In between the heated debates we visited Darwin’s home and the garden which gives a good idea of the life of this great scientist who used the luxury of leisure permitted by inherited wealth to work on theories which changed the way we think. We also looked around the home of Charles Dickens which is now a private school and watched the Memorial Day parade from the upper floor window of their home.

Next step was Bilbao in Northern Spain where Evelyn was giving a seminar on Human Lactation. Bilbao was relatively uneventful partly because it rained most of the time on all five days we were there. Old town of Bilbao is much like the medieval towns elsewhere in Europe, narrow streets with four to six storey buildings on both sides – shops at the street level and apartments on upper floors. There were not many customers in the day time and only establishments doing brisk business were lottery ticket stalls. It was a different story in the evening though. Streets were crowded with people although shops did not seem to be overly busy. The church of Saint Santiago was impressive from outside as well as inside with beautiful stained glass windows and intricate woodwork. The structure of Guggenheim museum, designed by Frank Gehry, is shaped like ships in a harbour to celebrate the naval traditions of the town. There were several outdoor sculptures including one by Anish Kapoor, renowned Indo-British sculptor. The modern art is not something I have learnt to appreciate and the exhibits in the museum left me confused. The imported exhibit of Dutch masters from Stadler museum in Frankfurt was more interesting to both of us.

Journey from Bilbao to Fes was unnecessarily long and stressful. First we travelled two hundred miles south west on a high speed train to connect with a sleeper, then north east to Paris retracing a quarter of our journey. We made our way from train station to Orly South Airport, to board a plain to Fes four hours after our arrival. For almost half of it flight the plain flew over the region we had covered on train. We landed in Fes exactly twenty four hours after the train left Bilbao Station. Perhaps our travel agent will have an easy explanation for this inconvenience and wasted time.

Half an hour of taxi ride in a Mercedes Diesel much older and smellier than the one I used to own, took us to a point from which we could walk to the hotel located well inside the Medina – old town. We followed a young man who pushed our luggage in a small cart through narrow lanes to the hotel which is built around two splendid courtyards. It is an architectural gem with comfortable rooms and excellent service. Our room was on the roof. It had attractive Moroccan décor and a large comfortable bed with a temperamental shower and shaky blinds. I woke up on our first morning to see a beautiful sunrise and have a bird’s eye view of Medina – the old town. This is the oldest preserved medina in the world – a UNESCO World Heritage site, going back to ninth century. 93,000 people live and work here in cramped buildings on each side of approximately 12,000 narrow lanes. Donkey and humans transport all goods and vehicles, even bicycles and scooters are rare. Most activity is a variety of crafts and of course manning the shops, female shopkeepers are rare. We spent four hours in the medina and I was reminded of a friend’s comment about CanLit. There were more shopkeepers even though only half of the shops were open than the customers just as there are more writers than readers on Canadian literary scene. It was here in a “Widow carpet makers’ Cooperative” that we were the victims of a vicious sales performance by a Moroccan carpet seller who would have put much admired carpetbaggers of New York to shame. Two lessons from this experience I would share with you. First, do not accept tea from a shopkeeper unless you have time and patience for a long sales spiel and the skill to counter it. Second, your guide, all appearances to the contrary, is working for the stores, not for you although you are paying him good money. During this walk we enjoyed a visit to tannery where they were preparing skins and separating the wool from leather. There were scores of huge vats for colouring the wool but were not in use. Again, there was pressure to buy handbags, jackets, belts etc in all colours and sizes. This time we were successful in resisting the temptation. We visited a spice shop with an enormous variety on display and a herbologist doing an excellent sales job. Evelyn had an interesting discussion with him on what he prescribed for various diseases and acquired a large sampling of his wares which will provide many excellent dinners for us and our guests.

One of Evelyn`s patients had suggested a call to her aunt in Mecnes, 40 minutes by train from Fes. She invited us to visit them and we spent a pleasant few hours there. Abdul, the man of the house, picked us up from the station and after a ceremonial drink of mint tea we headed for medina. It was smaller, but lanes were less narrow and busier than in Fes. The entry to medina is through a huge square with stores on one side, hammam – the public bath – on the other. Most evenings musicians and dancers perform in the plaza. The city of Mecnes is surrounded by a wall built by the founder Moulay Idriss in twelfth century. After a sumptuous lunch of lamb tagine and beef on skewers we headed for the train. On the station we met our first of may be four niqabs (scarf covering the face except a narrow slit for the eyes) we saw during our stay in Morocco. The women in Morocco seem to be far more advanced than in other Arab countries. They are out and about everywhere in jeans and hijab (Scarf covering the hair) is worn by less than half of the women. Two daughters of our hosts have high professional ambitions – one wants to be a physician and the other a teacher.

On the way back the petit taxi not only charged three times the going rate but also dropped us at the wrong point for our hotel. After some panic we found an English speaking young man who guided us to the hotel by a long half an hour track and persuaded us to go later to his uncle’s restaurant for dinner. He picked us up a couple of hours later. The meal was indeed pleasant although we could not do justice to it after the big lunch in Mecnes. After dinner we walked up sixty three ninth century steps to the roof for an unparalleled view of the medina. The young man earned his fifty dirhan, six dollars, tip by his guidance to the hotel and explaining various sites from the roof. We did find the next morning that he could have led us back to the hotel in less than five minutes but for a much smaller tip and not enough time to do the sales job for his uncle.

We had a pleasant day trip by car to nearby towns with a very talkative driver who turned out to be a reasonable guide. We went to Sefrou which is the oldest town in Morocco but has been mostly rebuilt. Drive to one of the two water falls in Morocco was more interesting than the fall itself which can’t be called majestic by any stretch of imagination. A visit to a cave home 143 steps up in Bihlal was interesting more due to the cave owner guide who spoke fair English and told jokes mostly in praise of himself. There are sixty cave homes in the area but his is the only one tourists are allowed to visit. The tips have made him a wealthy man and he is not shy to admit it. We also visited Ifrane, a small town built by French in 1929, often called the Switzerland of Morocco, Azrou cedar forest with monkeys and some other villages of minor interest.

On our way out of the old part of Fes we passed through ‘New Fes” with its broad avenues and the beautiful office buildings and luxury apartment blocks. There is enormous amount of commercial construction with money from oil rich states and new schools and colleges, highways and public housing projects are being financed by the government. Although people we came in contact with are not a reliable source, we felt there was growing optimism among the population. New Fes has broad tree lined avenues with multilane one way streets with heavy car and truck traffic to make up for narrow lanes and loaded donkeys of Medina. Another impressive sight was of confident, often proud, women with or without hijab usually in tight jeans, walking everywhere although rarely driving a vehicle. A few women policemen were on duty, something you do not expect in an Islamic country.

The next day we visited the Jewish area of old town called Mella. There were 65,000 Jews in Fes in 1967. Most of them left for greener pastures after the June war that year and current Jewish population is down to 534, only 200 of them women. The guide was lamenting that the Jewish young men go abroad to find wives and it is no easier for his two daughters to find husbands. The quarter is run down. It may have been burnt down during the protests in Arab – Israel wars. Most of the current residents are Muslims and reconstruction of Jewish sites depends upon help from American, and possibly European, Jews. He showed us the cemetery, Rabbi’s old collapsed house with just one exterior wall still standing, Jewish hammam but not the synagogue. Rest of the morning was a disappointment – Only Muslims are allowed to enter a Moroccan mosque; much to our surprise because we have visited much grander mosques all over Africa and Asia. Much of Fes seems to be open for view only from outside, Royal Palace, its grounds, major parks and historic mausoleums are all closed to visitors. In view of great emphasis on promoting tourism these restrictions are strange.

On our last day we visited the museum which was within a stone’s throw of our hotel yet quite hard to find. The items on display included many interesting antique doors, textiles, armours, pottery and old Qurans with splendid calligraphy. The courtyard of the museum building, a nineteenth century palace converted into museum, is a splendid garden with a variety of birds which were heard but not seen and a myrtle tree which I do not remember ever seeing before. There were several orange trees loaded with juicy fruit which nobody seemed to want. After the museum we had lunch in a genuine Fes restaurant in the Medina which served better food than our hotel at one quarter of the price. We had a long walk in the Medina to find famous mosques. We found two; they did not look any different from outside either from each other or from other mosques in Fes. The walk back to the hotel was a steep uphill and we were quite proud of ourselves to have done it with only a little huffing.

Of all the great Islamic cities we have visited, I found Fes to be the least attractive from a tourist’s perspective. The situation is made worse by poor maps, hardly any directions, hard to find and often dishonest cabs and almost total ignorance of English among general population. Then there is the smell – that of putrid waste in the Medina and diesel fumes from antique cars everywhere. Environmentalists should be complaining about pollution in this holy city rather than wasting their breath in the West.

We flew to Paris in the evening. Our flight got there around ten. We had a long wait for the shuttle and it took an hour and a half to get to the Holiday Inn. Evelyn ordered hot milk in the café and she was served a small cup of sour cold milk. She complained and was served a small hot glass of sour milk. I do not remember ever having been served milk in a restaurant that had gone off. But then French do have their own way of doing things. We had a lot of hassle the next morning to get to Charles De Gaulle airport from Orly airport because the bus got caught in a traffic jam. Fortunately we had anticipated problems and had allowed plenty of time and made the flight to London easily. However, we had to make a mad dash in London through miles of corridor and inevitable security check to reach the gate for the final lag of the journey in the nick of time. Our luck turned at last. The plane had several empty seats and Evelyn slept through the flight stretched over three seats wrapped in two blankets while I slept a little, read a little and did nothing mostly, the only thing I am good at.

We were happy to be home, even happier when we learnt that we had missed the cold spell of -30 degrees by a day.

A Doctor meets a lawyer.

We are getting on in life and the urge to wrap up the worldly affairs gets stronger by the day. Of all such affairs the will is probably the most important. By will I mean the legal document that is pulled out of the safe and opened with great ceremony after the body has been appropriately disposed. The family lawyer and trustee read the document with due solemnity to all family members who may be entitled to share what is left of your estate after paying hospital, nursing home, funeral home, trustee and the lawyer. It took some convincing for me to believe that financial managers will leave more in the estate than all the hawks will demand for their real and imaginary services. The clinching argument was that the likelihood of such a happy happenstance was greater if things were clearly spelt out and the work of the trustee and the lawyer was reduced to a minimum.

I wrote a clear set of instructions on what was to be done with any estate left after paying for care in my old age. The instructions were emailed to the lawyer of my husband’s company. After exchange of several phone calls and emails, the gentleman drew up a legal document and advised me to meet him at his office at 5 PM on Friday. I drove to his downtown office at the height of rush hour and found a parking place which was not in a tow-away zone. I had to run to his office and curse the elevator in three languages for keeping me waiting to get to his office at 4:59. The front door to the office was open. It seemed that the secretary had already left. I surreptitiously looked in the hardworking man’s office but there was no sign of his august presence. I sat down in the waiting area and opened a two year old Time Magazine to remind me of the world shattering events in one of the final weeks of the last millennium. I was engrossed in the story of President Clinton’s cigar when an elderly man hobbled in. “Oh Dr. Jolly, so sorry to keep you waiting. I was hit by a car when hurrying from a meeting to get back. Will you mind looking at my knees and my back where the pain is most excruciating.” He started stripping his clothes off and I had no choice but to examine him and recommend that he take some pain killer and see his doctor as soon as possible. “You won’t happen to have some with you by any chance, the pain is killing me,” he whimpered. I searched my handbag and found a few tablets to tide him over. He told me where the washroom was so I could get him some water to wash down the tablets. After the tablets were duly swallowed, he put his clothes back on and asked me to stop in his office to sign the papers.

He produced two copies of a standard form with a poorly typed document for me to glance over and sign. Then he signed it as a witness and gave me a copy. After that he produced an envelope with great ceremony and remarked, “This is my invoice for the fee for services. I hope you will find every thing satisfactory.” I stuffed the envelope in the handbag, thanked him and walked to the car. After all the events of last hour, a parking ticket would have been the last straw. Thankfully, some one up above was looking after the camel.

When I got home I looked at his bill. Looking at the sloppy typing and the number staring me in the face, I felt the decimal had moved a couple of spaces to the right. When my husband got home, I showed it to him. He was only mildly surprised with the amount, having been fleeced by lawyers at regular interval in his business dealings. However, when I told him the story of lawyer’s accident, he was quite disturbed. He went straight to the phone and left the lawyer a message to call my office and leave his health insurance details so I could bill Alberta Health Care for my services. Unfortunately, my service rates are fixed by the government and my fee did not amount to a tiniest fraction of what I had to pay him. To rub salt in the wounds (mine, not his), my fee was pre-tax and he had to be paid out of post-tax income.

Why oh why did I not take my father’s advice and go to the Law school for a couple years instead of ten years of hard slog called medical training?

Late Night Thoughts on Khadr Trial

“You will forever be a murderer in my eyes.” Tabitha Speer tells Omar Khadr.

The statement was made by the widow of an American soldier to an enemy prisoner who supported the Taliban troops and allegedly threw a grenade that killed her husband. I am not so insensitive as not to be sorry for the widow. However, I do ask myself how many Americans are feeling sorry for widows, mothers and children in Iraq and Afghanistan who were killed by their soldiers in combat or in the indiscriminate bombing of the ‘enemy’ communities over last ten years. In spite of my admiration for many qualities which are almost exclusively American and my distaste for religious fundamentalism, I personally feel in a bind on who I should side with more – the people who were going about living their primitive lives in their primitive villages and towns or the people who invaded with their sophisticated weaponry the countries half way round the world to impose their own culture on them for reasons incomprehensible even to many American citizens. Surely the Iraqis and Afghans, poor and illiterate they may be, have the same emotions and deserve the same sympathy for their loss as the people who use elegant phrases to express their hatred for the enemy who only did what their husbands were trying to do to them.

Americans are entitled to defend themselves as much as anybody. However, this entitlement is only valid when they are being attacked and only against the enemies they have identified. Destroying a whole village by rockets fired by unmanned drones directed from Virginia because some Taliban leader may be hiding there is not defending America, it is attacking that village. If you are honest you have to accept that such attacks entitle residents of the village and their supporters, be they Taliban or foreign friends, to repel and if necessary kill the invaders by throwing grenades or whatever means are at their disposal.

Most Westerners believe that the 9/11 attacks have given America a cart blanche to destroy whatever they wish and wherever they wish to prevent the reoccurrence of the horrible event. That may be so but is it wise, not to mention ethical, to set no clear aims and limits? The original goal of the invasion of Afghanistan was the destruction of El Qaeda. Within a few months of the start of the fighting the followers of that group had scattered all over the world and the leaders left Afghanistan and are known to have been working from Pakistan. Rather than moving the soldiers to Pakistan, successive U.S. administrations have been sending arms and other aid to the tune of tens of billions of dollars every year to Pakistan government and the killings in Afghanistan continue unabated. The aim now is the destruction of Taliban who are accused of wishing to keep Afghans in dark ages. It is probably true but there are other tribal leaders there who pay lip service to the West in exchange for truck loads of dollars and are no better, in many ways worse, than Taliban and no one is destroying their villages. In many respects the mullahs of Iran follow the same creed and no one has invaded Iran. Only apparent reason for the West to fight Taliban is that they will not accept continued presence of invaders in their midst and they will fight rather than compromise their value system. As people who cherish our own value systems and are fighting to defend them we should be treating these fellow travelers (in this respect at least) with respect, not contempt.

In this context I should mention the Mau Mau movement in Kenya fifty years ago and its charismatic leader Jomo Kenyatta. For more than a decade British soldiers labeled the movement as terrorists, put a high price on the head of Kenyatta and fought them tooth and nail. When the loss of life became unacceptable and Kenya’s importance to the “Empire” diminished, British negotiated with Kenyatta and anointed him the President. There are several other cases of former terrorists leading their countries, often with distinction. It should not surprise any one if that happens before long in Afghanistan too.

El Qaeda has not succeeded in mounting another major terrorist attack in the U.S. since 9/11. But they have been a major factor in the near collapse of the economy. To combat El Qaeda the former President started unwinnable wars in two far off countries and built an immense security structure which not only costs more than the whole budget of many developed countries, it also inconveniences citizens at every step and adds significantly to the cost of doing business. These actions have been a huge drain on the economy and the debt administrations have accumulated over last eleven years is now counted in trillions. Moral authority goes with economic power and the debt of this magnitude has eroded the power of suasion the U.S. Presidents once had. It is a shame that the only super power at the beginning of the new millennium lost that distinction just as its nemesis did in the eighties, and the millennium is barely a decade old.

Incredible though it may seem, the decline and the probable fall of American economic empire is largely due to actions of one sick man – Osama Bin Laden – who was also behind the events that were the catalyst for the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Feeling Young

Helen and I went to school together sixty years ago. Our paths separated only to join again fifty five years later when we were in our seventies. Our children protested but we calmed them down by handing over all our assets to them except a little we needed to supplement our meager pensions. We did not marry for money nor for the looks because at our age one has learnt that appearances never fail to deceive. I can assure you dear reader, that we did not marry for sex either because none of us had forgotten the miserable experience on the back seat of my Dad’s car and had no desire to recompense for it at our age.

So what was it that prompted two introverted bookish individuals with six children, twenty five grandchildren and eight great grandchildren between them, to tie the knot when well past the prescribed three scores and ten? I can’t speak for Helen except to say that it was not my culinary skills that persuaded her; I have never dared to eat what little I have ever cooked. I can only tell you what there was in it for me. It was the rush of Dopamine to the right centres of my feeble brain when I saw her, even thought of her. But what caused this rush. It is the story that I want to tell you. Please bear with me, it is not long. Younger readers please don’t laugh. Older readers will understand; some of them may even envy me.

After the fate snatched away from me the beloved wife of fifty years, I liquidated my home in the suburbs and moved to a small apartment downtown. I could walk to a hole in the wall that called itself Jim’s Pizza House but served excellent Moussaka cooked by his charming wife in the kitchen you could see through the window. Along with a side dish of Greek salad and Baklava with Espresso to round it up, I had enough to eat for the day. I usually dosed through the dinner hour in front of the TV with an open book in my lap and when I woke up I never could remember whether I had had the dinner or not. If I felt peckish I ate a few chocolate chip cookies with some chamomile tea. Otherwise I brushed my teeth with the fancy electric toothbrush my dentist grand daughter had given me a few birthdays ago and rolled into a cold bed. When I woke up, I read the National Post (or was it Mail?) with occasional sips from a cup of Darjeeling tea and then had resin bran for breakfast, in the same bowl I had used the previous day because I had forgotten to wash it. I hardly did anything all day because I could not remember what it was that I should have done.

Then I met Helen in the Pizza House. When I entered the restaurant on a beautiful day, one of the three faces on the table on my right seemed familiar somehow although, no surprise there, I couldn’t quite place it. I went to my usual table and sat down. After a few minutes Jim walked over. I was expecting him to say, “The usual sir” but I heard instead, “The lady over there has asked me to offer to you an appetizer of your choice. What will be your pleasure sir?”

I did not usually order gin and tonic, although, if I remember it right, I never had a meal without it in my young days. So I ordered it and trudged over to the lady in a blue dress, a gold necklace and diamond earrings sitting with her back to the wall, sunlight streaming from the window on her happy face.
“Thank you very much for the drink. I know I should remember you, the face is familiar but the memory has gone the way of so many other things in my old age. Please save me from sleepless nights for the rest of my life.”
“Hello David. I am Helen. We went to Jim Lloyd High together.”
A billion watt bulb flashed.
“Of course! How stupid of me. Now I remember it as if it was yesterday. How have you been?
“I have been fine except that I lost my husband of forty five years. I moved here a couple of months ago to be near two of my children.”
She introduced me to her son and the daughter who were with her. We arranged to meet for lunch the following week to share what life had thrown at us.

I made notes with red ink on white stickies and placed them at key points in the apartment to make sure I remembered the appointment. When the day arrived at long last I polished my shoes, dressed carefully in a white shirt, blue suit and the matching red tie and combed my remaining hair carefully covering the bald patches as well as it could be done. The jacket hanged loose, pants dragged along the ground and the collar of the shirt was a little big but it was better than any thing else in my antiquated wardrobe. I walked over to the Pizza House half an hour before the appointed time. While waiting my thoughts went back to the teen years. Helen was the bright kid in the class; I was the macho sports kid. To no one’s surprise we got together. I was lost in the reverie when I heard the voice that hadn’t changed much, “Sorry, I am late. I missed the stop and had to walk back.”
“I hadn’t noticed the time. Glad to see you and note that you still look the same.”
“Stop flattering me. It won’t get you anywhere now.”

The lunch lasted almost till the dinner time. I was amazed at how much she remembered of our years together. We arranged to meet again, and again. It didn’t take long for us to fall in love, properly this time.

What made me fall for her? I can assure you it was more than the loneliness of a widower. I was blown away by how sharp the brain of Helen still was in spite of us being of the same age. She remembered where we had met, what we had eaten at all our previous meetings and how it tasted, every word I had spoken while I couldn’t recall any detail about the previous rendezvous, even what she had just asked. She pointed out that the glasses were in my pocket when I was going berserk looking for them but she always knew where the pen in her handbag was; leave alone the whereabouts of the bag. She knew the exact time for the bus when I had forgotten where the stop was.

I felt in my bones that Helen would resolve all my problems if she became part of my life. There was nothing I could contribute towards her welfare but I asked for her hand anyway. I am bewildered whenever I think of it that she accepted. Of course all the hell broke loose when we told our plans to our respective children. However, the things worked out after some give and take, give from us and take from our families. We had a small wedding celebration with our local families followed by a short honeymoon – stroll on the Sandy Beach in Calgary – and settled down in an apartment not far from Helen’s son to make it easy for him to drop the kids when other care was not available. My hopes were realized as well. Thanks to all kinds of neurotransmitters now circulating in my brain my memory circuits revived and Helen’s patience is not tested as often as it used to be when we were courting. I am feeling young in so many other ways too that who knows; we may even be able to consummate our marriage one day.

Fall From the High Point
1

Extroverts have all the fun. So they say. But introverts know that it is not true. Only our idea of fun is different. Getting drunk and boisterous without knowing why and cheering in a concert hall or a sports stadium till we are hoarse is not our game. We enjoy intense discussions on serious topics plaguing the mankind with or without reaching an agreement. The idea of fun is one where the twains – introverts and extroverts – will never meet.
The discussions are usually held over lunch. We set the topic of discussion in advance, read all we can get hold of on the subject, mull over the material, come to some conclusions and prepare arguments to support them. The discussions are often heated, certainly hotter than the tepid bisque served in the “always open” modest diner we meet in. In younger days I had a large number of friends and such meetings were frequent. In recent years, retirement has claimed many of them and I am lucky if I can find a guest once a month. In some ways it is good. It helps me lose weight as I lose height with growing years.
Ravi is the person I lock horns with most often. I first met him thirty five years ago when he moved a few doors away from where I lived in a community of middle class young professionals and hopeful business managers. He had a lovely wife who got along well with mine, perhaps because they were both from Peru and could talk to each other in Spanish. Each of the families had two girls of similar ages who played well together. I worked then, as I do now, with two other architects specializing in renovations and small buildings. Not much has changed, not in my professional career any way. Ravi, on the other hand, had a remarkable career. He was brought to Canada by a small service company with big plans. His expertise was in designing innovative software to help in exploration of oil and gas. Ravi had big plans for himself too. For a change from my other stories this one is not about me. This is about Ravi, his rise and fall.
We had our last meeting a couple of weeks ago. We resolved the housing crisis south of the border and disagreed about the impact it will have on the price of our homes. We were heading for the cars when Ravi looked at my truck and asked whether I could help in moving his desk and chair from his office to the basement of his home. I agreed without the slightest hesitation and the date and time convenient to both of us was readily agreed upon. On my drive back to work his amazing career occupied my thoughts.
Much happened to Ravi during the years and I have watched it with some amazement. A year or two after we had met he came over for coffee one weekend morning. When we had made ourselves comfortable in the den with mugs of steaming Kona coffee in our hands he threw the opening gambit in the conversation, “You won’t believe what I have done.”
“I don’t know whether I will or not. You have to tell me first.”
“I have resigned from my job. I am starting a consulting business in oil industry.”
“No I don’t believe it. You can’t do something so foolish. You couldn’t have considered it fully. Monica is a full-time homemaker, you have two little girls in elementary school, you have just moved into an expensive home. I guess you have a big mortgage.”
“You are right on the details. To add to these we have very little in the bank.”
“Not only that, you have been in the country only two years and I don’t imagine you have all that many business contacts. You don’t seem to be the type to have a mentor. You being brown does not help in this country either.”
“You are bang on with the negatives. Mind you, there are a few positives too.”
“Tell me. I am all ears.”
“I have worked in five countries and my broad international experience is an asset. Unlike most consultants in business I have studied and worked in all aspects of geophysical exploration. Published research has given me some exposure.”
“That is all fine. Have you got anything lined up to put food on the table next month? You are always welcome here of course.”
“I hope it won’t come to that. My former employers in Denver have offered a lucrative, though short, assignment. I will use this time to drum up some local work.”
“What does Monica think about it?”
“I explained all this to her. She listened very patiently and agreed. She thought it was worth a try if I wanted to do it so bad.”
“You have a gem of a wife. I know many women who will kill their husbands for less.”
“I know Monica is a treasure.”

2

Monica made a suggestion that Ravi worked out of home office to begin with but he brushed it aside. He subleased a small office space on the ninth floor of the building downtown. It had two rooms, one for him and another for a helper if and when he could afford one. “Farsighted guy, he will go far,” I thought when he told me this. As it turned out, he needed a technical assistant a few months later and I recommended him a good candidate who had applied to our firm. The business expanded rapidly. Four years later I renovated two thousand square feet for his eight employees, five professionals and three support staff. One evening I saw a marvelous view of sunset over the Rockies from his seventeenth floor corner office. I felt sorry for my friend because I did not believe that he had either time or inclination to appreciate such niceties. He occupied that space for five years.
A gas station in our community went out of business. It was an attractive building on a large lot. One evening over beer on his patio Ravi asked whether it would be feasible to convert the existing facility into an office space of four thousand square feet with the mortgage payment about the same as the rent he was paying then. A month later I presented the plans and the cost estimates. I could use the existing facilities almost as they were and add two floors of office space where the gas tank had been. Ravi was delighted and the construction started soon after. He moved into the converted gas station the following year. A year later I built for him another building on the lot where Monica opened her medical practice with two doctor colleagues. Two other doctors and a small lab occupied the upstairs floor. Ravi and Monica had the only ‘His’ and ‘Hers’ pair of buildings in town. At this point, his consulting operation had seven professionals, three technicians and an office manager. His reputation in the industry was such that the size, revenue and profitability of his business stayed at this level for several years with only minor fluctuations in spite of notorious ups and downs in the oil industry. Unbeknown to either of us this was the crest in the trajectory of his business career. Then the gods turned against him and made him proud.

3

I arrived at my cubicle and forgot all about Ravi’s story till the time I helped in his move. After we had set up the desk and chairs and hooked up his computer system, Monica asked whether I had time for a slice of pecan pie she had baked that morning. “Only if it comes with plenty of whipped cream and a cup of Tetley’s tea,” I cheekily replied. Ravi and I sat across the desk waiting for refreshments when he told me some things about his career I had not known before. These filled the holes in the story I had in my mind. It is a long tale. I will spare you the details and only touch the salient points.
Ravi had set up a registered retirement savings plan (RRSP) soon after his arrival in Canada to take advantage of deferred tax on contributions to the plan. At first, his investment activities were restricted to this, “if only because that was the only money I had” he told me. Call it beginner’s luck, his investments did well. A few years later he was buying shares with the money left over from business operations. A few grand failures excepted, these investments were productive too. Then came a point at which investment income was comparable to that from consulting operations. I now quote him because I can not bring myself to believe it. “This is when business sense left me and vanity took over. I began to believe that I could do no wrong and it was time to diversify the operations into fields I only had superficial knowledge of” He acquired exploration rights over two large areas, one for oil and gas and the other for iron ore. I remember his excitement at that time and him telling any body who would listen all the technical reasons in excruciating detail for expecting huge deposits there. On my wife’s advice I kept the cheque book in the drawer but a few of his other friends with gambling in their blood put some of their retirement funds in the so-called high risk/high reward, in my opinion all risk/no reward, projects. Years later Ravi had this to tell me: “While the ventures were sheer folly they were nothing compared to my decision to give up the lucrative consulting business. With no flow of spare funds from this business the cash eventually ran out. After several years of hard work and an expenditure of considerable amount of money, both ventures had to be folded. Not only did I lose money, I lost face as well, although the generous partners stayed on congenial terms.”
When the consulting business was put to bed, the building was too large for the remaining operations. An accounting firm made a reasonable offer for the property which, after much heartache, Ravi accepted. He first leased a two thousand square feet space with five offices for five years, then moved to twelve hundred square feet with three offices for two years and relocated again to eight hundred square feet with two offices for four years shedding employees at each stage. Let me use his words for the final stroke of fortune, “2008 stock market meltdown heaped the ultimate ignominy on me. The account with the money leftover in my corporation and Monica’s medical practice was entirely wiped out. I laid off my last employee, the long term office manager, and now I have had to move my desk and computer to the basement of our home.”
I should have been more understanding of the weight of melancholy my dear friend was under. Instead I was inwardly gloating about the wisdom of staying in the same cubicle doing the same job till my days were done. “How does it feel to fall from the high point in the trajectory to the prospect of working on retirement funds in the basement?” I asked.
“Even though I will not miss the grind of daily commute, I can not get rid of the sense of failure. If any of my operations had succeeded and I had retired to the basement after handing the business over to a successor, I would have an upbeat sense of having created something which outlasted me. Now when I look in the mirror I see a man who thought he was great only to discover that greatness is not assumed but bestowed by proven success.”
“This is all so sad. I am really sorry for you.”
A smile lit up Ravi’s face, “No need to be sorry dear friend. The sense of failure is ephemeral. In spite of everything I have love and respect of a wife and two daughters, high achievers all.That makes up for my business failures and I am content.”

God Works in Mysterious Ways.

Wife Monica and teenage son David decided to have a bash to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. They told me about it because they know I don’t like surprise celebrations. I was allowed to make suggestions on the guest list and help with the arrangements. Dinner was to be catered, held in the lawn of our modest bungalow. Fifty guests were invited and most accepted. Three days before the party, Monica said to me, “I have a surprise guest coming on your birthday.”
“Who is he? Someone I know!” I asked.
“Yes you know him. No more questions please. Let us keep it a surprise,” Monica put a tight lid on the issue and to please her I agreed to let her have her way for once.

The day arrived in its own time. Sun rose at seven as usual, scattered white clouds sparkled against the bright blue sky and a gentle breeze promised to keep heat at bay. Forecast of a pleasantly warm sunny day seemed to hold again. Monica prepared a sumptuous breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. I opened first the cards telling me how wonderful I was and then the presents, a pure wool cardigan from Monica and a book by Pastor John of our church from David. Monica and David hung Happy Birthday balloons in green, red, blue and purple. To humour me on my special day my dear wife and son played games of Scrabble and Monopoly with me. In between the games we arranged tables and chairs for the guests, one long table for the caterer to set and serve the food, another for drinks to be served by David. I was instructed to let them do all the entertaining. I was to enjoy the adulation of the guests for having survived the rigours of the life of a college teacher. If the surprise guest was on my mind it was far back and no one mentioned him.

Guests started arriving in twos and fours after six. Half an hour later when most of the guests were on their second drink and Monica was beginning to look nervous the door bell rang. Monica’s face lit up and she rushed to welcome the guest. A few moments later I heard a voice from my youth and then saw the face of my friend from our formative years thirty years ago.

Ravi and I studied Chemistry for five years in the same school in India. We lived in the same hostel and spent much of our time in each other’s company. However, to say that we were like two peas in a pod would be exaggerating more than a bit. Ravi was the top student in our years there and I scraped the bottom. It was not that I goofed around and he worked hard. In fact it was the other way. I had to work day and night to barely average C while he spent most of his time playing Romeo with girls from Art faculties. Yet he won the best scholarships and graduated with the gold medal. If my memory serves me right he was a proud young man quick to put others in their place.

After graduation we ended up at opposite ends of Canada. Although we lost contact, I knew about him because his work at the research lab of a drug company often hit the headlines in the media. He married the daughter of a former Prime Minister. It would be more accurate to say that she married him in spite of threats of disinheritance by her irate parents. To prove himself worthy of her he worked hard and made best use of his talents. He won all the honours a scientist can win. He rose to become the youngest ever director of a major lab in North America and was invited to join the boards of some of the largest corporations in the country. His estate in Montreal was often featured in popular magazines for the excellence of its design and furnishings. I, on the other hand, married a kindergarten teacher from a working class family and struggled as a teacher in the local technical college. Our paths couldn’t have diverged further.

To say I was surprised to see him standing there is an understatement of the magnitude only I can make. I looked at him with my mouth wide open. There was my friend of teen years, looking wiser and older but not any different than twenty two year old Ravi I had last seen. Not one of his long hair had turned grey, same wheatish complexion, not a pound more on the slim figure, short by Canadian standards but still impressive. Only thing odd was his dress, white loin cloth and a long cotton tunic in pale orange. He looked like a monk on the bank of River Ganges. I, on the other hand, had lost most of my hair and quite a few teeth, gained fifty pounds and stooped a little. I was dressed as a pretend cowboy for the Stampede season. It took a pat on the back by David to bring me back to Earth and move forward to greet my friend.

As we shook hands vigorously and then hugged other guests cheered. Somehow they had known about the surprise. He asked what I was up to and I told him of my good fortune in Monica and David and a job that paid enough for us to live in some comfort. I asked him about his unusual dress. “We will talk about it later,” he answered.

The party was a great success. Ravi was a hit. When people asked him how new drugs were invented he told them interesting tales from his lab. Now that I think of it, he said only the minimum about himself. He asked every one about their families and interesting events in their lives, listened attentively and paid due compliments. I noticed that he drank only water and avoided meat. Every one had good words for my old friend. I basked in reflected glory with delight.

After the other guests had left, Ravi and I headed for the den. He refused the glass of wine but encouraged me to have one. After some small talk I asked him again what was behind his monkish appearance. Here is what he said, as well as I can remember it.

“You know about the scholarship every gold medalist from our college was offered. I accepted it gladly and came to Montreal to do a doctorate in Pharmaceutical Chemistry. Even before I was half way through, several drug companies offered me attractive positions. I accepted one where I would have the most independence and have stayed with them ever since. They have been kind to me and the association has been good for both, the company and me, as well as for public at large because we were able to discover treatments for some common diseases.

“I met Brenda at a colleague’s reception. If I had known her pedigree I would have avoided her but I did not know and we fell in love. In spite of her parents’ bitter opposition, may be because of it, we got married. Her parents came around when Brenda was expecting our first baby. We had a comfortable life. Brenda looked after the family, we ended up with a boy and a girl by the way, supported the Arts as much as we could afford and gloried in my professional success.

“Life was good till three years ago. Then the house collapsed as if it was made of cards. Perhaps it was. Brenda told me she was in love with the Premier of the province whose romances in his gay life as a bachelor kept the local tabloids in business. She wanted a divorce so she could marry her lover and help him become the Prime Minister of Canada.

“I was shattered. I was never an emotional person, won’t say I really knew what loving a human being was. Friends said my Emotional IQ was zero and that is why I was such a success in the profession. The children were in college, the boy at Harvard, the girl at Wharton. The distance had made the relations with family at home quite tenuous. Brenda was the only person I really cared for in this world. Now she wanted no part in my life.

“I did the only thing I could think of. I went to the roof of my lab and jumped off. Six storey building wasn’t tall enough and after a few months in hospital my bones were as good as they were before the fall. The huge stink in the newspapers made the Premier change his mind but Brenda filed for divorce any way. She did make sure though that I was looked after during the recovery. When I was walking again, she did something for which I will always be grateful to her.

“She found out from some article in a San Francisco publication about the ashram – what they call retreat here - of Swami Dharyanand in Rishikesh, not far from where I grew up. Rishikesh is a beautiful little town in North India located in the foothills of Himalayas on the Ganges before it has been polluted by the discharge from the millions who live in the cities along the river and its tributaries. This swami is unique; he is an atheist and his ashram is for atheists who are suffering emotional distress. It costs a pretty penny but that was not a problem, thanks to the Premier’s sense of guilt. I spent six months at the ashram. There were thirty disciples, as they were called. Every month a few of them left and were replaced by the new ones. Those six months with Swami changed my life and I can not thank him enough.

“The disciples were of all ages – from late teens to sixties, from all walks of life and from all over the world. We lived in dormitories, one for men and one for the ladies. Intermingling of sexes was encouraged and there were a couple of private rooms available to couples for occasional rendezvous. We had two things in common, we did not believe in omnipotent God and all of us were emotionally distressed. Our lives were quite regimented. The diet was strictly vegetarian, alcohol was not permitted and consumption of coffee and tea was limited to two eight oz cups a day. Our day started with the sun rise. We had half an hour to prepare ourselves for the day. After a breakfast of oatmeal and milk, we worked in the garden for an hour. Then we headed for the morning discourse.

“Discourse was the best part of the day. Swami and swamini, his partner, sat cross-legged on the carpet on a raised platform. We sat on the bare floor facing them, ladies on the left, men on the right. Swami spoke in heavily accented English and often asked swamini for appropriate English words. He set the ball rolling by wishing every one a good day and asking if there were any questions on previous discussions or suggestions on topics we would like to study. There were many questions from the floor, mostly of personal nature and some suggestions based on what had been bothering the individuals. Swami responded with patience and answered questions in detail. Once in a while swamini nudged him and he allowed her to say her piece.

“The sermon came next. There was no mention of any superpower, not even Darwin, or of any holy book In fact there was nothing holy in swami’s books. But he talked for an hour or more on how human beings should live and the principles that should guide them. After more than two years most of his sermons have receded to the back of my memory but one principle he enunciated stands out. For me, this was the foundation of all other principles and I vowed to practice it for the rest of my life. I knew there would be times I would fail but every failure would be followed by greater effort. I have much to be grateful to the Swami for, but his illumination of this simple rule, which all religions preach and all saints have practiced, is what transformed my life from a stressed to the breaking point existence to a succession of peaceful and harmonious days.”

He stopped to take a few sips from the glass of water. It broke the reverie I was in and I picked up my wine glass and a handful of salted lightly roasted peanuts. Our smiles reflected our renewed affection for each other. We enjoyed a few moments of silence. Then I asked him to tell me all about the teaching that guides him now. He continued from where he had left off.

“It is something so obvious I have often wondered why I had to return to my birth place and go to a swami to learn it. Let us face it; Hindu swamis have the image of self-serving, money grabbing individuals educated Indians despise. Yet here I was under a swami’s wing, although not a Hindu but an atheist, yet a swami all the same. After being accustomed to luxury of a Montreal mansion, it was tough, particularly for the first few weeks. Yet, there was something there which gave me an inner peace I had never known. Swami and swamini talked in soothing tones, never raised their voice and answered even the stupidest queries gently although a faint smile could sometimes be noted by a careful observer. Hard physical labour in the fields before and after the morning session must have contributed too as did the lack of stimulants in the diet. As you must have noticed, I have continued Swami’s diet regimen although I sleep longer and work in the lab rather than on a farm. I have managed to retain the peace swami helped me acquire and stresses, whether from negative results at the lab or news of Brenda’s complaints about our lives together or the kids demanding ever bigger allowances, last no longer than a few minutes. In any event, I have kept away from the roof and any inclination to go there has been fleeting.”

Monica came in the den to check we were still awake and asked if we needed a snack. Instead of answering her query I suggested, “Come and join us. Ravi is telling me what changed him from an upward mobile stressed to the hilt yuppie to a man at peace with his inner self. He spent six months in an atheist ashram in India and he is just getting to the point of telling me his swami’s key teaching.”
“It won’t mean much to me without the context. I will go and finish putting the house back in order. You can tell me all about it later,” Monica said tactfully leaving old friends on their own.

Ravi picked up the thread, “As I was saying I stay away from the dreadful roof. Only time, and it is only momentary, I feel that way is when the word gets to me of Brenda telling our common friends my numerous shortcomings, particularly how deficient I was in bed. She never forgave me and invented some new blemishes in my personality, how much of it is due to my action which made her love for the debonair Premier a melancholic memory is hard to tell. Regardless, I am completely focused on observing the principle and the failures, when they occur, make me try harder.

“Okay, I have kept you in suspense long enough. The new principle in my life, and you will be surprised to hear it because it is diametrically opposite to what I followed when we were at college, is amazingly simple to state and immensely difficult to practice. But just trying to do it washes away the accumulating dirt in my soul; it makes me feel good all over. Here it is: In all your contacts make the other person feel better than he or she did before meeting you. Easy to say and to some it comes naturally. But it is hard for me and I have to constantly remind myself. I am getting better at it though.”

Ravi stopped and looked at me waiting for a reaction. I was a little confused by his short statement after such a lengthy introduction. But words were expected of me and this is what I mumbled, “You are right; it is simple to say and hard to do. In our own ways we all try to do it without really realizing it but our ego gets in the way. Problem is equally simple to state and just as hard to solve: How do we put the other before self.”

Ravi replied, “Swami Dharyanand devoted several mornings to this problem. Sages have emphasized humility as the most important characteristic in a noble human being. Humility means being aware of our shortcomings as much as the goodness in others. It means living for others; putting self after that of the person you are in contact with. It means relieving the suffering of others and replacing it with joy. It means providing a source of strength to the down and out individual whatever the cost. It means letting go of the ego. It is hard, very hard. I fail more often than I succeed. I have to constantly remind myself of my vow to the Swami. That is why I wear the humble apparel of a disciple – to remind me of my primary responsibility. It might sound phony but I do get great satisfaction in trying.”
“How do you control your natural reaction to fire back when some one near and dear to you is harshly critical of you on a regular basis?" I asked.
“Swami covered that too in one of his sermons. It is difficult but by no means impossible. One has to realize that getting upset does not improve the situation. I would look at my recent actions and try to identify the one that may have prompted the criticism. There is no smoke without fire. If one finds the fire and puts it out, the smoke disappears.”


Clock in the hall struck twice. Ravi stood up, “Time to say goodbye. It was kind of Monica to think of me and it was a joy to renew the old friendship. I am sorry if I bored you with my monologue. I do get carried away. Please convey my thanks to your charming wife and best wishes to your delightful son. I will write to you when I am back in Montreal.”

We walked to his rented car and shook hands firmly before he got into the driver’s seat. I turned back towards the front door with moist eyes wondering where an atheist gets the strength from to take such a vow and to work so hard to keep it.

Monica was awake when I crept into bed. I told her my dear friend’s strange story. In spite of the late hour, she listened to it without falling asleep and did not interrupt me once. When I finished she looked at the ceiling, perhaps through it, and mumbled, “God works in mysterious ways”.

Cure of an Addiction

I loved to receive letters but hated writing them. In old days in India when I was young and foolish, several sheets of neat rounded words from my female cousins were eagerly looked forward to and I spent more time on my response than I could afford. In later years, my fiancée and I exchanged frequent letters which were treasured till the hurried evacuation from a war torn country caused them to be turned into indecipherable ash. However, there were also the letters from my mother that I dreaded to open. The content was always the same; “You never tell me what you have been doing. I want to know all about your hostel life…. .” The complaint was fully justified. The letters home were exactly the same every time, “Things are fine here, lot of home work….,” you get the idea. These were the days before copying machines were common, otherwise I would have sent a copy from the master draft and saved some time for letters to my fair cousins.

After I got married and settled down in the pleasant life of the head of a growing family, cousins went by the wayside. For decades all my correspondence was related to the business; formal, short, to the point, dry as a bone. Being a man of few words – if you keep your mouth shut the foot stays out – this format suited me and I became quite good at it. Then all of a sudden it came to an end. I was booted upstairs and others wrote the letters for me to sign.

After some thrashing about, a new outlet for my talent for concise expression of opinion dawned on me – Letter to the Editor. I am a man of many interests, none all consuming but enough to read the variety of articles in the newspapers and magazines. A person once dear to me compared me to a wide and shallow lake – I can express an opinion on any topic under the sun, under the clouds on a rainy day, but can not write a well argued essay on anything. So what can be better than to write a couple of lines about a news story or an editorial? Sometimes I would commend, sometimes find faults. It was always brief – no wasted words. And it was always prompt – the letter was in Editor’s inbox within an hour or two of my receiving the newspaper or the magazine. Many of my letters were accepted – perhaps because they were short and ideal space fillers.

After a few years my name became familiar to the serious readers of Canadian media. I came across strangers who had seen my name in the paper although they could not remember in what context. Once in a while they did remember it and an unpleasant debate ensued. On occasions my letters displeased the family members. However they are forgiving individuals and I escaped with an apology for offending statements. But the urge to have the name in the media every week was hard to overcome. Let us face it, Letters had become an addiction.

There is no Letter Writer Anonymous for poor addicts like me; we have to struggle on our own. We don’t even have the sympathy of our families in this battle. There were times I managed to go without submitting a letter for a few days but even before a full week had gone by my resolve would crumble and letters would start flowing from my computer to esteemed editors again. During one withdrawal period my good wife suggested that if I worked on longer pieces, say stories or essays, my focus would shift and I may even write something of enduring interest. Well, I did write short and not so short stories and essays. A reputed publisher published a collection of stories that sold a thousand copies. I even wrote a novel. Yet the flow of letters continued unabated. Till one day a couple of months ago!

Our national newspaper has a policy of publishing just one letter from any individual in any thirty day period. Once a letter is accepted, submissions hit the delete button for next twenty nine days irrespective of their content and quality. When I became aware of this policy I sent the next letter on the due date – thirty days after the publication. If it did not please the editor I sent another the next day. It was rare that I needed to try for the third time.

After a decade of letters in the Canadian media at regular intervals my contribution has not appeared any where for long ten weeks. At first it was not for the lack of trying. After my third letter failed to appear in the aforementioned national newspaper I sent the fourth, then the fifth and so on. After ten letters I stopped to take stock of the situation. The writing on the wall became clear after staring on the blank screen for a while. My style had gone out of date, there were too many young bright writers for my contribution to stand out, my opinions were becoming like an old LP stuck in the groove. Could be any of these reasons or could be a combination. In any event one thing was clear – my letter writing days were over.

It is six weeks since the last letter left my computer. Good bye addiction, good bye Editors. You won’t have my letters to delete any more. Sorry readers – if you really miss my letters, sincere apologies.

Investing in Tough Times: An Update

The stock market indices show that an average investor suffered a huge loss of almost 50% during September 2008 and recovered about half of this drop over the following twelve months. For this year so far, the market indices have moved sharply both upwards and downwards but in a narrow range. The change of two to three percent in one day’s trading happens at least once a week. Traders have made and lost money but the buy-and-hold types have stayed put at a level one third to a quarter below the peak achieved in the summer of 2008. Investors feel a general sense of relief but there is still a lot of anxiety over what is in store. The questions most often asked are:
1. What does the future hold?
2. How should one invest such that the investment is not wiped out in the next collapse?

The crystal ball I acquired in the Tripoli souk in 1969 is wearing out and the picture it projects is rather fuzzy. For what it is worth, my view of the short and middle terms is more of the same as the last twelve months – volatility governed by the news (or the perception derived from it) but within a range of 10 to 15%. In a move that has been repeated ten times so far this year, indices give up five to eight percent over a few days, then pick up the same amount over an equally short duration. I fear that this volatility is here to stay for a few years.

In the long term the future is clear – gross overpopulation of the planet and rising consumption are not compatible with limited resources which can be grown or extracted with acceptable risk. A disaster in form of a series of natural calamities or a major war is almost inevitable. In reality this is beside the point for investors; one can not invest today based on the danger of a catastrophe sometime in the next decade.

Given the interest rates below the rate of inflation, and even that nominal income being subject to income tax at the highest rate, it does not make sense to stay in cash for an extended period. Sky high debt levels of consumers and all levels of governments in the West and low savings rates make inflation at some point in time very likely, particularly if the economic growth does not resume soon. I would not wish to be trapped in the bonds when inflation is rising. I am not a gold bug but there are many who believe that gold breaking record levels almost every day is an indicator that inflation is not far away.

The opposite of inflation, the deflation, is also a possibility although most economists do not believe it is likely. In a deflation economy borrower businesses and consumers find their debt ballooning in real terms and many are unable to keep up with the payments. . This is what is happening with Real Estate in the U.S. and it is the main cause of the stagnating economy. Deflation puts the financial institutions under great pressure and increases the likelihood of them going broke. Cash under the mattress would perhaps be the best investment in this situation so long as the mattress does not catch fire or attract undue attention.

The basic reason for stable prices in last decade was the fixed Chinese currency even when the manufacturing of consumer goods was shifting to China and the country was accumulating huge trade surpluses. One way to reduce the prospect of deflation and grow Western economies again would be to convince China to let the currency float and reach its proper level, about a third higher than it is at now. This would increase the price of Chinese goods and help the industry in the West grow again. Hopefully the rising prices would be offset by higher employment and wages in private sector will improve after staying flat in real terms for last twenty years. The recession and deflation would be avoided and with some wise management by central banks this would be achieved with an acceptable rate of inflation.

Given that any of these scenarios may present itself, a volatile stock market is to be expected. In an uncertain environment leverage is a dirty word. In 2008 crises highly leveraged investment companies and individuals were wiped out as they have been in every precipitous drop in the market. In current situation, prudent investors will watch the leverage and eliminate it at the first indication of danger. That applies to investment in real estate as well as stocks.

The best performing investments are likely to be the well-balanced portfolios. Incidentally, investment in just one or two stocks is risky. The portfolios with ten or more evenly distributed holdings in diversified industries have the least downside risk and best upward potential. There is no harm in starting with one or two stocks, you have to start somewhere, but the intention must be to expand the portfolio sooner rather than later. A portfolio of $50,000 or more should be divided in four parts:

1. 30 – 35% in income trust units. Hydrocarbon prices are subject to too many non-commercial factors and oil and gas income trusts carry higher risk. The units have to be selected carefully for sustainable payouts and, whenever possible, from different industries. The top performers in my portfolios have consistently been the income trusts, even during the 2008 crisis. After the end of this year almost all income trusts will convert to high dividend paying normal corporations. The dividends are expected to be smaller than payouts now but will be eligible for dividend tax credit. The tax credit is not available in registered plans therefore their desirability in such accounts is somewhat reduced, though not eliminated. Many investors are afraid that the unit price will drop after conversion. However, this has not been the case with most of the companies that have converted so far and these fears do not appear to be justified.
2. 25 – 30 % in high dividend (four percent or higher) common shares in various industries. Preferred shares have the same problems as the bonds and they have no space in my books. The financial sector should be underweighted because the economy is not out of the woods yet and no one knows what the new regulations would do. This part of the portfolio has consistently been a better performer than indices.
3. 20 – 25% in ‘growth’ stocks, either the companies going through hard times which they are likely to survive or the ones with great growth potential. Occasionally some do go under (Nortel) but the survivors make up for the losers. The companies who pay some dividend are preferable. These stocks do relatively well in inflationary environment.
4. A small percentage, no more than 10%, in rank speculative stocks, juniors getting a foothold in businesses with good prospects or former stars which have been written off by other investors. It is crucial that the portfolio has several holdings of this type. Risk level becomes unacceptable with just one or two such holdings. Individual stocks of this type occasionally increase several fold, some go out of business, others stagnate till they boom or bust. Overall, this part of the portfolio provides a great deal of excitement but performs inconsistently. Investors must be careful to avoid the temptation of overloading on these charmers.

In my experience of investing over forty years, portfolios consisting largely of stable companies paying significant dividends are most likely to provide the best returns in good times and bad. Final word of advice, leverage is dangerous in uncertain times and must be carefully watched.

Silent Prayer

My work as a cab driver is hard but not without compensation. The hours are long but not necessarily boring. In between passengers I have time to work out in my mind the outlines of amusing stories I like to write for the enjoyment of my family and friends. I accidentally left one of these on the back seat a few weeks ago. A bookish type passenger read it and suggested I submit it for publication. Thus encouraged, I sent it to the editor of our community magazine. I felt that it was good to start at the bottom and establish a publishing record before attacking the appropriate venues for my literary work. Another positive in the job is that the passengers are often interesting. I serve people in all walks of life from all corners of the world. Businessmen traveling alone can be a drag because as soon as the seatbelt is fastened, blackberry comes out and they are connecting to the bosses or the bossed with the results of the latest meeting. It is funny how they feel free to discuss the most confidential matters completely oblivious of two ears in the front taking in everything. If they think that the cabbies are bound by some code of ethics, no one told me about it. But I do feel honour bound not to broadcast the latest twists in the hot takeover battles although I am not beyond whispering the critical details in well heeled ears, for appropriate tip of course. As for benefiting from such information by indulging in stock market activity, I keep away from it. Firstly it is illegal to trade on confidential information; secondly I don’t have any money left after paying for the gas.

A few weeks ago, all these considerations were thrown out of the passenger side window. Two fellows with loaded not so brief cases hailed me and jumped in giggling to themselves. The cell phones came out and both started talking whether to their clients or bosses, I couldn’t tell. With both talking at the same time it was hard to make out what they were saying. It seemed important and I strained my ears without appearing indiscrete. I did not understand the details but this much was clear: They had just negotiated a deal which would give the bondholders of a company in receivership full value for their money instead of twenty five cents in the dollar the bonds were trading at. The opportunity to quadruple the money in a few weeks looked too good to pass. Only problem was that old cliché: you need money to make money. After depositing my informants at the airport, I parked the car at a remote taxi stand where I could think with little chance of interruption. The owner of the taxi company was a gambler and spent all his time checking his portfolio. However, he was a skinflint. He would use the information, but he wouldn’t even thank me let alone share the profits. I knew that Jamila, my wife, had been saving for a trip home. But she never told me where she secreted the money and there was no way I could find out without leaving telltale signs. The only possibility was Alibaba, the owner of the pawn shop in the community. According to rumours Alibaba lent you the money at hundred percent interest and ten percent fees to be paid in advance. He got his money with interest even from the hardest cases without ever going to court. The muscular collectors he hired were more efficient.

Even if I paid the standard interest and fees, I calculated that I would more than double the money. I drove straight to the pawn shop and asked alibaba to lend me a couple of grand for something urgent. To his credit, he did not ask the reason. He took me to a dingy room in the back and told me the terms, “You are borrowing 2,500, including 500 in fees which are paid in advance and you have twelve months to pay me back 5,000. A year from today, Big Bull will call on you and if the money is not there, the consequences would not be pleasant for you or the family”. I did a quick calculation; 2,000 becomes 8,000, I give him 5000. That leaves me 3,000, enough for a deposit on my own cab. “It is a deal,” I said. We shook hands and I left the shop with twenty dirty hundred dollar bills. However, dirt didn’t have time to stick to my fingers. Within a few minutes, bills had been converted into 8,000 dollar bonds.

The business news now became my main interest. My car radio was turned on to the business channel. At home I disregarded Jamila’s protests and turned TV on to the Report on Business station. The company’s restructuring was big news. A week later the deal on bonds was reported. The bonds shot up to 80c. I calculated that I could sell and walk away with 1,400. “Not enough for the deposit, a good investor must be patient” I thought. A week later the bonds crashed to 20c. I was perplexed. There was no news but there must be some reason for such a fall. I called the company. After keeping me waiting for a long time, enough for me to miss two fares, I was connected to an accountant type. He told me something about senior bonds claiming all the money and leaving little for my junior bonds. I didn’t follow the gobbledygook but my heart sank. Something was seriously wrong.

The due date came and went without any money showing up. I called the accountant directly. He said that the two types of bondholders are taking the matter to court. The case will be heard in two months and the judge will issue his verdict a month later. He said things didn’t look good for “juniors”, they may not get anything. Then he gave me the number of the lawyer representing juniors. The lawyer happened to be one of my regulars and was very friendly. He was much more hopeful but he had another wrinkle, “The judgment will almost certainly be appealed by the losing side and it may not be settled for years.” Just when I was going to collapse I heard, “But it may be settled out of court too.” I gave him my number and lay down on the backseat till the cop ordered me to move.

I had a call three months later, “I have just received the judgment. We have lost the case. I will call you again after I have studied the document.” My world went dark I owed Alibaba five grand and there was no way I could repay it. However, I still had eight months to plan my strategy. “May be my story will be published; some publisher will read it and offer me an advance for my book.” Crazy thoughts, but these were my only hope. I spent the day in a daze, taking my passengers to the wrong addresses and receiving deserved scolding from them. After work I walked up the stairs to our apartment pondering my next move. Fortunately Jamila was wrapped in her own concerns, something about her kid sister in Lahore wanting to immigrate to Canada. Then my heart took a leap. There on the table was the letter from the Editor. I tore it open. Just one line, “Your story was not considered suitable for our journal.” My world was coming to an end for sure.

I am as resilient as the next man. Next morning I got up earlier than usual and drove to the taxi stand at the Grand Hotel. Who should come out of the hotel but the lawyer of the “juniors”. He looked happy for someone who had lost a big case. He settled himself into the back seat without looking at me, took out his cell and dialed a number. My cell rang and I heard in both my ears, “I was hasty calling you yesterday. We did lose the case but only partially. The judgment allows us fifty cents and will not be appealed. You should get your money in a few days. I thanked the caller and quickly worked out that I would be one grand short. Working two shifts over weekends for next eight months should make up this difference. “Allah is great, He teaches us lessons in the form we can learn” I thought. I said a silent prayer when the car was facing east. I now had another proof that Allah looks after the poor and the meek.