Random outpourings

I was walking home one day, when I saw a monstrous new building on the road. “Oh wow” I thought “must be the new ultra luxury modern sky scraper project from Hiranandani’s, or possibly  the new MUTP mega project.”

But it looked a bit different. And I when I got a little closer, I saw that it was the local chapter of Bindeshwari Dubey’s Sulabh Shauchalaya. Well, I suppose in number of people relieved and happy, Mr. Dubey has done more for the country than any godman or politician.

I don’t know whether India is shining or not, but I must say that the public toilets are looking very hep. This one was a large and imposing building, looking more like the local “Shakha” or a post office or something. I would imagine that the locals will be afraid to pee in it, it looks so gleaming and posh. What a paradox – the toilets look like post offices and the post offices…well, never mind.

I was going to ‘go’ inside, but the attendant prevented me.

“Sorry saar. Not operational as yet.”

“Why not?”

“Inauguration yet to be done saar.”

Inauguration?!! Of a loo?

But the evidence was unquestionable. The attendant pointed to a huge marble notice being put on the wall - ‘This public facility inaugurated by Mr. So-and-so, honorable commissioner, on this date, etc’

I went home wondering how a toilet must be inaugurated.

Does the Hon. Commissioner get to cut a ribbon? or do the first pee? Or both? Just imagine – the commissioner cuts the yellow ribbon, goes inside, unzips and pees as the enthusiastic crowds applaud. I wonder what they will shout – “For he’s a jolly good yellow.” Then he will probably give a speech – and I wonder which of his outpourings will be more appreciated. To honour the occasion he will talk shit, I suppose

Imagine the complications – suppose the ceremonies get mixed up. The commissioner has unzipped and then someone hands him the scissors…oh no.

And just think of how much the official will have to care for – he will have to ensure a steady and impressive flow, not to mention the need for a good aim and steady hand-eye coordination.

And suppose the official has more than one engagement, won’t he run out of …ideas? Also his ideas and outpourings should come in a smooth flow, and not in fits, starts or trickles.

But wait – there are more complications. Suppose the official is a woman? Will she skirt the issue, or settle down to a solution?

Later I was discussing this issue with a friend, and he said that this was the best thing to have happened in the neighborhood.  Now all the people should be forced to patronize this “temple of modern India” rather than letting it all hang out in the streets.

But it costs fifty p to go and P, I reminded him. And since most people in India are im-pee-cunious, they would probably carry out an illegal transaction in the open.

If that is the case, then we must force them – he replied.

We can’t force them to pee, it would be an infringement of the freedom of action of the individual. The international community would object, I said.

In that case, we must do it under IPKF supervision.

IPKF supervision?

Oh yes, he answered. “The International Piss Keeping Force.”

Dress Sense

I was waiting for my flight at Bangkok airport when I saw a person with vaguely Indian features sitting next to me. We got into conversation, and it turned out that he was not Indian, but a Bhutani. This was close enough to home, especially when you are in a foreign country, and so we warmed to each other.

 He looked fairly Indian, and also had Indian mannerisms. I was planning to go to Bhutan for a holiday, and had done a lot of reading about it, so I was able to ask him about the cities of Paro and Thimpu, the ‘Dzong’ monastery -fortresses, the black necked cranes of Phobjika, the 23 day snowman trek, etc. He was very happy that a foreigner knew some things about his country and told me all about them.

After some time he stretched luxuriously and said “It’s so nice to be casually dressed all the time. It makes a nice change.” 

I looked curiously at him. He was dressed fairly normally in jeans and T shirt. 

“Why? Don’t you dress like this at home?”

“Well, we can dress any way we like inside our house, but when we are in a public place we are supposed to wear only our national dress.”

“National dress?” I asked

“Oh yes. We have a national dress called the ‘Bakhu’, and we are very proud to wear it. We wear it all the time, and in fact it is compulsory to wear the ‘Bakhu’ in office.”

“Compulsory?”

“Oh yes. In fact, we are fined if we don’t wear our national dress in the office. Why, don’t you have a national dress?”

“Oh yes, of course. We have a rich variety of ethnic dresses. We have Dhoti, Kurta, Achkan, Salwar kameez, turbans…we have some pan national dresses, and every state has its individual dress. We also say that we are very proud of our dress and heritage.”

“But you don’t wear them much in public do you?”

I thought for a minute.

“No…we prefer to forget them, and prefer to wear the dress of our invaders – Shirt, pant, tie, coat, etc. In fact, we are ashamed of wearing our national dress in public. In your country and in your office you are punished for NOT wearing your national dress; and in our country and our offices, we are punished if we DO wear our national dress.

 In fact, if I come to work wearing a dhoti, kurta and chappals, I will be coldly asked whether I am participating in a fancy dress, and will be ordered to go home and come back properly dressed in shirt, pant and shoes.”

He thought about it for a moment and said “Strange ways you have in your country.”

I couldn't disagree.

Fly past

One thing they don’t mention in the tourism brochures of Western Australia is the  population problem.

The country is overpopulated.

Not with humans, but with flies!

As soon as day breaks, they are all over the place, in their thousands...millions...billions! In your eyes, mouth, face, ears...going bzzz bzzzz bzzzz.

They are not nasty ones like our desi flies, which seem to have a personal vendetta against humans – these ones seem to be extremely friendly – moronically friendly – and all of them have come over to hug you and pat you on the back and shake you by the hand and  say ‘G’day mate....g’day mate...g’day mate...’ all day long and not realise that you are not as thrilled to be meeting them as they are to be meeting you.

In India you get flies when there is garbage around, or shit, or something rotten or something equally unpleasant. Not so in WA – they are everywhere – like oxygen. Stop your car anywhere and step out in complete wilderness – virgin landscape...extremely beautiful...there won’t be a soul around for 100’s of kilometres – and whooom! You are surrounded by a cloud of flies who’s dearest wish is to get as close to you as they can.

You wave and jump and dance and curse and then surrender and jump back into your car – only to find that a dozen or more flies have decided that they love you dearly and want to hitch a ride with you. Then again you curse and wave and the car wiggles dangerously in the road, causing your wife and any other driver who may happen to be in the vicinity to have a minor heart attack. Cursing and bad language happens, and then you roll down your window and shoo as many flies as you can out of the car.

I developed a theory about why there are so many flies here.

After God made the 4 continents, he got very bored with doing the same old same old.

‘Bugger this.’ He said ‘I am sick of making deer and cattle and monkeys and shit like that. I am an artist! I cannot allow myself to be bound by any one style. Now, I will make something totally weird.’

And so he thought and thought and made up all kinds of weird stuff for the fifth continent– kangaroos and duck billed platypus and koalas and stuff like that...

He made every bloody thing here so poisonous that absolutely anything can kill you with a horrible death – snakes, spiders, molluscs, shell fish, jelly fish– anything.  He made giant crazy landscapes – deserts, mountains, gorges, long winding rivers, mangrove swamps, the tallest trees in the world etc etc.  He totally freaked out.

But the problem was that so much ideating took so long, that he ran out of time. The seventh day was coming and he had to rest – but he still had a huge amount of life force to finish off.

‘Fuck this shit.’ He said ‘I’m bored.’  and fooooosssssshhhh – turned all the life force he had left into flies and went off for a rest.

That’s why the bloody place has no animals but only flies.

She-who-must-be-obeyed heard my story with a cold glare and said ‘what nonsense.’

‘Why? Is it any worse than the aboriginal story of a giant snake and a kangaroo jumping around in dreamtime when the world was soft and malleable and thus making the hills and valleys? Or for that matter, the story of a dude in a big white beard creating all of creation in 6 days and then taking a nap on the seventh day?’

‘I see a bright future for you as a mythologist re...’ she said ‘...very promising indeed.’

‘They can send me an invitation for mythologist of the year – address it to Mr Ketan Joshi and Fly.’ 

The biggest loser

The biggest loser.

Some people go around the world collecting souvenirs, while some people go around the world leaving them.

These people are cheerful, sharing, not obsessed with detail, not bothered about material possessions, believe in ‘vasudeva kautumbam’ – or the world is one family.

Unfortunately, they are also known as forgetful, absent minded, idiot, would forget head if not screwed on .. and also as ‘KETAAAAAAAAAN!!’

I had reached Perth after a bit of flight delay and was staying with Jimmy and Monaz. Bharathi had landed before me and  had reached there already. When I reached there, I noticed that they were all  staring at me like one may stare at a circus performer – waiting for him to do his next trick.

‘Err...hi...’ I said, looking from side to side and uncomfortably noticing Bharathi’s grin.

‘Bharathi has told us a lot about you.’ They said.

 As far as scary sentences go, this must rank pretty high.

‘Oh....really?’ I said. ‘It’s all false, I assure you. A fake. A fabrication. A fiction. A tissue of lies and deception.’

‘Arre, you don’t even know what she said.’ Monaz’s mom said.

‘Aunty – she is my wife....so unlikely that she would have said anything complimentary.’

‘True that.’ All the males in the room nodded. Jimmy and his father in law getting nasty looks from their respective wives.

‘She said you lost your passport!’

‘THAT’S NOT TRUE! THAT’S A FALSE ALLEGATION! THAT’S SLANDER! CALUMNY! CHARACTER ASSASINATION!’

‘Mummy..’ Monaz interrupted. ‘She said that he WASHED his passport’

‘Er....’ I went silent.

‘You really did??’ they all stared at me round eyed. I wiggled with embarrassment.

‘Well...technically I didn’t wash my passport. She did.’ I pointed at Bharathi. They all turned to look at her.

‘The fool gave me his pant to wash with his passport in one pocket and his goggles in the other...’

‘You should have checked the pockets! What kind of dhobi are you?’ I protested

‘...and imagine my state when I pulled his pant out of the dryer and noticed something in its pocket and pulled out a passport which had been in the washing machine for a full wash and spin and in the dryer for 1 hour. I nearly had a heart attack.’ She continued, completely ignoring my interruption.

 ‘And what did he say when you showed him his washed passport?’

‘HE WAS HARDLY BOTHERED! HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD AND SAID ‘WELL IT’S TOO LATE TO WORRY NOW’ AND WENT TO SLEEP!!!  I WAS DYING THERE, AND HE MERRILY GOES TO SLEEP!!!’

They were all looking at me in shock.

‘And what happened after that?’

‘Well, it was a bit of a circus, but we got him back safe and sound.’

‘Show the passport, show the passport! ‘they begged and I reluctantly showed them the bruised and battered passport, and they all oohed and aahed over it. Clearly, I was a paisa vasool entertainment.

‘So what’s the tally now?’ Bharathi asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘What all have you lost on this trip?’

‘Ha!’ I was stung. ‘What have I lost? That’s rich. That’s fine. That’s shameless. Who was the one who lost my gamcha in South Africa, eh? Who was that forgetful anti-kleptomaniac? Who? It was you! You! You! You!’ I said, pointing my finger dramatically at her.

‘Anti – kleptomaniac?’ uncle asked, after a pause.

‘Well....a kleptomaniac is a person who goes around taking things...so an anti-kleptomaniac is someone who leaves things behind.’

‘Ah. OK. Nice one.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned my attention back to Bharathi ‘for your kind information madam – I have not lost a single thing on this trip. Not a sock, not a hankerchief, not a safety pin. You, on the other hand, have lost an irreplaceable gamcha. So you are the scatterbrain here, not me! YOU YOU YOU!  BUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’  I roared with laughter, and everyone tapped a finger on their foreheads and looked at Bharathi with sympathy.

Bharathi just shrugged with a ‘You can’t win them all’ expression and said, ‘OK, never mind. Let’s start listing down the things to do before we start our road trip. Firstly, you have to get  a mobile connection...’

‘I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT BEFORE YOU TOLD ME TO! I WIN! HAHAHAHA’ I cried in joy, and then looking at the stunned faces in the room, realised that my joy was disproportionate to the issue. ‘Er...I mean.. I already picked up a sim card at the airport.’

‘OK...next...Aussie currency. We have already done that, by taking a travel card. (that story is here) Give me the card then.’ She said.

‘OK.’ I said confidently. I had kept all documentation safely in separate plastic folders in my computer bag. My passport, visa, yellow fever vaccination certificate, travel itineraries, etc.

I pulled out my bag and took out my folder casually and looked inside. Then looked again, with a little more concentration. Then looked again. And again. This time with full concentration. Then picked up my bag and rummaged through it again. And again. And again. And again.

Then I looked up.

‘YOU DIDNT!!!’ Bharathi looked at me with horror.

‘Well...er...’

‘YOU DIDNT!!!’

‘What happened dickra?’

‘THIS IDIOT HAS LOST THE TRAVEL CARD!’

‘Well, it’s not lost exactly...’ I said. ‘...I just don’t know where it is....’

‘Where can it be then?’ Uncle said, trying to give  constructive advice. I thought a bit.

‘Well...it could be in the hotel in Johannesburg...or at Johannesburg airport ....or in the plane from Johannesburg to Doha...or in Doha airport ....or in the hotel in Doha...or in the plane from Doha to Perth....or in Perth airport...’

I looked around to see everyone’s mouth open in ‘O’s of shock.

‘So...it could be anywhere on three continents.’ She-who-must-be-obeyed said, after a pause.

‘Er...yes.’

‘GRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr’ She ground her teeth like a big truck changing gears and made a deep throaty sound like a tigress about to pounce on her prey. Just a can of yellow paint and some whiskers were required to complete the illusion.

Neville came running into the room, shouting ‘I AM BACK.....WHAT DID I MISS?’

‘Ooooh...what fun....he has lost all their money!’

‘It could be anywhere in 3 continents!’

‘She is going to kick him so hard, he is going to be incontinent...hehehe...’

 The Karani’s and the Kasad’s settled comfortably on the sofa and pulled out some popcorn! This is going to be fun! They starting placing bets

’10 bucks on a scream of 3.2 on the richter scale!’

’1 gets 50 that she will give a roundhouse kick to the face!’

‘best odds on her biting several pieces out of his leg!’

 But then suddenly Jimmy thought about how are they going to get back without any money? Shit. ...they will stay in Perth forever!

‘I will call the airport.’ He said brightly ‘and ask if they have found anything.’

He googled the number and called, and immediately got a recorded message saying that the office is closed now but if he was of a hopeful and trusting disposition, he should leave his contact details and issue and they would get back to him. Maybe they sell this database of numbers of trusting and hopeful people to telemarketers.

We all were watching She-who-must-be-obeyed  like the villagers of Pompeii must have watched the mountain glow and bulge just before the explosion – a weird fascination and urge to watch inspite of knowing that a cataclysm was on the way.

‘So, don’t you think that you should call ICICI and cancel the card?’ she asked with a dangerous calm.

 ‘Er...OK...I will call...good idea...’ I replied. ‘Wasn’t it a good thing that I got that SIM card with unlimited calling to India, hey?’ I said, trying to mention something positive to lighten the mood, but quailed at the expression on her face.

Now, ICICI has the worst customer service possible for travel cards. They don’t have an online portal to report lost cards, they don’t even have an online portal for travel cards at all. It is hidden somewhere on their sight, where only a hacking wizard can find it. They don’t have an international hot line. They don’t have anything.

Finally, I called the normal ICICI phone banking number, and got a message saying that they have only limited customer service before  6 AM. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea that they didn’t have 24/7 phonebanking.

But they had a special portal to report lost card – press zero for lost card. I did that, then it asked me whether I wanted to report lost card for banking, credit card or prepaid card. Thats it. No specific option for international travel card.

I deliberated for sometime before pressing the ‘credit card and prepaid card option’ but I had deliberated too long. The system cut me off.

Cursing a bit, I dialled again. This time, the system first informed me proudly that they were at the very forefront of technology and had instituted a ‘voice recognition’ technology, then they told me that only limited options of phone banking were available because it was so fucking early in the morning, then they asked me if I preferred English, hindi or Marathi, then asked me to report lost card, and then asked me if I meant to report ATM card, debit card, credit card or prepaid card. After I chose credit or prepaid – it asked me ‘all your credit cards will be disabled permanently!! Are you sure? Are you really sure? Are you really really REAALLLLLLLLY sure?’ and as I thought about it, it decided that I was too bloody slow, and threw me out.

My blood pressure spiked to dangerous levels.

Fuming, I decided to call my relationship manager and ask him to do the needful. First, I tried to whatsapp him. no response. Then I tried VOIP Whatsapp calling. No response. Then I tried calling him on mobile. No response.

Seeing my rigid face and bulging veins, even Bharathi didn’t make any inflammatory comment.

‘Maybe he is not taking the call because he doesn’t recognise your aussie number.’ She said ‘try sending him a message telling him that it is you calling.’

I whatsapped him, smsed him, emailed him, but no response.

‘Fuck this.’ I said ‘Why am I wasting time with these guys? Sambo, My batchmate, is some hotshot in that branch – I will call him.’

‘It’s still early in India.’ Bharathi said ‘You will disturb him.’

‘That will be even more fun.’ I said, and called Sambo – but again, no response. I messaged him and waited, but still no response.

‘OOOOOO.....HE CANT GET THROUGH.....OOOOO....SOMEONE WILL WITHDRAW ALL OUR MONEY AND WE WILL BE LEFT PENNILESS.....OOOOOOO....HOW WILL I GET BACK TO INDIA......OOOOOO...MY CHILD...HOW WILL SHE SURVIVE WITHOUT MEEEEEEEEEEE’ Bharathi wailed.

Seeing that, jimmy started wailing too ‘OOOOOO.....HOW WILL THEY GET BACK TO INDIA.....OOOOO....THEY WILL STAY HERE.....OOOOOO....HOW WILL I EXPLAIN TO THE IMMIGRATION SERVICE.....OOOOOOO....’

‘Here...relax...’ I said ‘I will call the ICICI portal again.’

I called them again, and again went through all the nonsense...welcome to ICICI bank....voice recognition tech..blalbla...press 1 for English 2 for hindi...press 0 to report lost card...press 1 for ATM card ..2 for Debit card...3 for credit and prepaid...all you cards will be blocked and you will be a pauper and no dukaandaar will ever treat you properly again...are you sure..are you really sure....are you really REALLY sure?

YES GODDAMIT! I am sure. I pressed the button.

And the bloody call went to a human operator! I was shocked!

If the call was going to be routed to a human – why on earth have that  irritating waste of time menu?!!

Idiots!

‘Yes sir....Welcome to ICICI bank...I am soandso speaking...how can I assist you?’

I almost wept with joy, and the tension level in the room abated. ‘YES YES YES...please help me...BOO HOO HOO...I am calling from Australia and I seem to be have been on hold for most of my adult life. I have lost my travel card...’ and I told him the story.

‘OK sir, no problem...I will connect you to the team responsible.’ He said and again I was on hold! ‘thank you for calling ICICI bank! Please wait as all the operators are laughing at you for being such an idiot! Thank you for calling ICICI bank....’

After several minutes, finally the call was answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thank god you picked up! Listen, this is an emergency! I am calling from Australia!....’ and again I told him the story.

‘OK...so you want to block the card...please tell me the card number.’

What a damn stupid thing to ask. I have lost the card – which I have never used – how am I supposed to know the 16 digit card number?

‘I don’t know it, I am afraid.’

‘Oh you don’t know it? Really? What an idiot you are!. OK...tell me your passport number then.’

I told him, and the line went dead for several seconds, punctuated only by vague ticking and tapping sounds. The tension mounted.

Finally he said ‘I can’t find any card on this passport number. That’s strange. Tell me your birthdate please.’

‘Wont it be easier if I tell you my bank account number?’

‘No sir...we don’t have bank details here.’ So I told him my birth date. More tapping.

‘I don’t have any records sir’ he said finally. ‘Are you sure you took the card from ICICI?’

‘Yes of course I did.’ I snapped. ‘It’s an ICICI multi currency travel card.’

‘AH!’ he said, with the air of a person who’s problems are solved. ‘I SEE! This is just the travel card department...you want the MULTI currency travel card department....I will connect you.’ And tuk! He vanished.

‘thank you for calling ICICI bank! Now please fuck off!’ and the line got cut!

I was left staring at the phone.

I looked up and everyone in the room backed away from me. My eyes were bloodshot, my incisors were growing into fangs and I must have been looking like Dr Jekyll turning into Mr Hyde. I was gripping the phone so tightly, I was a good thing I didn’t crush it into pulp.

I tried to calm down - might as well have a shit, I thought. Life is always better after a shit.

While shitting, I had a bright idea. My relationship manager might not be taking the call for any reason, but my classmate Sambo would definitely have taken a call. Maybe his number has changed. And I knew where to find his correct number – it would be in the class whatsapp group! I checked and sure enough, the number was different from the one I had been calling.

I called the new number and a puzzled  voice answered ‘hello?’

Sighing  with relief, I told him the whole story, and asked him to get the card blocked.

‘Can’t do that Kejo’ he replied ‘Only the call centre can block your card. We have strict security procedures.’

‘WHAT! But I have been trying to get through to them for hours...centuries...aeons!’

But he would not be moved. He could try to  do something once the office opened after a couple of hours, else my only bet was the call center.

I had another good idea while sitting on the pot. I had got the number of my travel card in a mail when I had written to ICICI complaining about their procedures. I checked and found it! Now I knew my card number! Hallejulah !

Moodily, I tried again, and jumped through all their hoops again. Press 1, press 2, press boob, press your throat and try to kill yourself... this time I confidently entered my card number....and got through to a human operator!

So, it made no difference whasoever, if you enter or don’t enter your card number!

‘OOH! THANK GOD!!’ I screamed, probably scaring the poor fellow. ‘I have lost my multi currency travel card and I want to block it....connect me to the MULTI CURRENCY TRAVEL CARD department...not to the travel card department...otherwise I will combust spontaneously here and cause third degree burns to everyone around!’

Luckily I got through this time to the correct department and to a very sweet guy, who found my card and blocked it. May the heavens shower blessings upon him!

Finally! Oof.  What an ordeal it was. Talk about an inefficient system . Good thing I had unlimited calling to India, or I would have been in the soup. This call would have cost the big bucks – it had taken so long to get things done!

I cooled down my frazzled nerves with a cup of tea, and saw Uncle and Aunty staring admiringly at us.

‘How cool you both are!’ aunty said. ‘No shouting, screaming or panic.’

‘I would have been hanged from the nearest lamp post by now, if I had done something as stupid as this.’ Uncle agreed, and aunty gave him a nasty look.

‘What to do...’ Bharathi said, as she linked her arm in mine. ‘You get used to it, when he loses something or the other all the time.’

‘But what will you do for money now?’ Uncle asked.

‘Oh, that’s not a problem.’ Bharathi replied. ‘We will withdraw from ATM. I just wanted to make sure that no one uses that card to withdraw all our money.’

‘Now you be careful!’ uncle and aunty wagged their finger at me. ‘Don’t forget anything else.’

‘No no...’ I replied. ‘I will be very careful. Once bitten, twice shy and  all that.’

We made our way out and Neville dropped us to the car hire shop where we were to pick up our car for our three week driving holiday across Western Australia.

‘We are very late....we should have made an earlier start.’ She-who-must-be-obeyed grumbled. ‘What time is it?’

I looked at my wrist. It was empty.

I had forgotten my watch at Monaz’s place.

Bugger!

Flight risk

I don’t think anybody has missed as many flights, trains and buses as I have.  Ever.

I have missed trains because I was mistaken about the timing – on my very first backpacking trip, me and my friend Chinmay were supposed to go to Calcutta together on the Gitanjali express. Chinmay sent me a fax of the ticket (this – as you can guess – was a very long time ago) and the time of the journey was  a bit garbled. I thought that the time was 6.30 so I decided to reach the station a full half an hour earlier – only to see the Gitanjali express steam out at 6.00 AM – which turned out to be the actual timing. I tried to chase it in a local – but the express took precedence, and I had to give the chase at the end of the local line and come back and take a flight. You would think that this one experience was enough to teach me a lesson – but I have missed trains as late as 2014 by being mistaken about the timing. Even my mom has blogged about it! You can read that blog here. 

I have missed buses because – well, because I was late, or because I couldn’t find the bus stop – don’t laugh! Bus stops aren’t marked clearly – it could happen to anyone. And once I missed it because me and Dillu were having a drink at Lamba’s restaurant and bar at Chembur. It is right opposite the yogi hotel bus stand, and I am sure better people than me and Dillu have missed the bus by getting carried away by its prawns koliwada and cold beer.

But it is in flights that the true creativity of missing flights comes through.

In olden days (gotta stop  saying that – makes me feel like a neathandral) you could turn up just moments before the flight time and still get seated. Once I woke up at 6.00 Am for a 6.30 AM flight.

‘Oh, you have missed your flight.’ Dad said

‘Not on your life!’ I said and dragged him into the car, and drove like Ayrton Senna (gotta think of names of modern racing car drivers) to the airport – Shit shave shampoo and drive all happened in 25 minutes and we were at the airport at 6.25! Dad was white faced, shaking and almost catatonic as I left him and sprinted to the Jet airways counter. There was no irritating CISF at the time, so I could reach the counter in seconds and slammed my ticket on the counter and demanded a boarding pass.

‘Sir...the flight has gone!’ the check in girl said.

‘NO NO...’ I said ‘I can still hear them announcing the last and final departure. Give me the boarding pass.’

Unbelievingly she said ‘Do you have any check in luggage?’

‘NO! DAMMIT! GIVE ME THE PASS!’

She gave me a pass and I sprinted through the security and made to the boarding gate with moments to spare.

Obviously, this was before 9/11 when the world was more innocent. Try this stunt now and you will be in the clink with a security squad guy beating  your ass.

But we are talking about missing flights – now anyone can miss flights if you are late, or the flight is preponed or traffic is fucked up (all of which have happened to me) – but I have missed a flight sitting right there in the departure lounge in front of the gate!

I once missed it, because I fell asleep! I was dozing right in front of the counter and missed their boarding announcement and numerous appeals to the mysterious Mr Joshi to turn up. After I woke up, I had to sheepishly go and ask for a seat on another flight.  Luckily it was Indian Airlines so they obliged  - today's private airlines would have told me to go buy a new ticket.

That is also understandable – if you are asleep, you are asleep! But I had an even stranger experience once.

I was waiting for a Delhi  flight – it was an Indian Airlines flight IC655 or something, departing at 9.00 AM. I had reached well in time, and was sitting in the departure lounge, watching the people board. Now, I don’t see the point of boarding the flight early and just sitting in that cramped plane waiting for the other idiots to board. In my book, boarding early is done only if you are escorting neurotic elderly relatives or have a lot of cabin baggage and you need to be first in the cabin so as to get the space in the overhead locker.  I generally make it a point of sneering at the fools who stand in line to board the plane, and being the last guy to board the flight, so that as soon as I sit down they do the safety drill and take off.  This is a tried and tested procedure, and I have done it hundreds of times.

However, in this particular case – there was a twist.

I strolled up to the check in clerk and royally handed him my boarding pass. He tried to scan it a couple times, but the system couldn’t take it. He peered at my boarding pass and said to me

‘Sir – you are not on this flight!’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

‘You are on flight IC 655 to Delhi – this is IC 654 to Delhi – via Ranchi! Your flight was at 9.00 AM – this flight is at 9.05 AM.’

‘WHAT!’ I was shocked ‘ Where is my flight then?’

‘At the next counter sir..’ he pointed to the neighbouring boarding gate. ‘But they have closed the boarding. The counter is closed.’

‘WHAT!!!!’ I screamed and ran to that counter, but it was closed. Puffing and gasping, I came back to this fellow and said ‘Put me on your flight man- you are also IC and you are also going to Delhi.’

‘I don’t know...’ he said doubt fully ‘the flight is full. Only one passenger is yet to board – if he turns out to be a no show, then I can give you his seat.’ 

I waited hopefully, but then the bloody fellow turned up, puffing and gasping  and I had to go down to their office and get a seat on a later flight.

However – all this was on domestic flights – which is after all a controllable environment. The worst thing that can  happen is an embarrassing call to the client or to the boss.

I have had some interesting goof ups on international flights too!

One was on the Mumbai Dubai flight. We had had a good year and the company was sending us on a junket to Dubai.

I reached the airport well in time and greeted my colleague Shekhar at the airport. We cleared immigration well in time, but after I cleared security, I just couldn’t find my boarding pass! I searched high and low, but the bloody thing had vanished!

Shekhar almost had a heart attack!

‘Sir sir sir....what will we do sir...the cops will arrest us and give us the third degree...OOOOOO.....my first foreign trip.....MERA KYA HOGAAAAA......MY POOR PARENTS....WHERE  WILL THEY SEARCH FOR MEEEEEE....’ he broke down and started sobbing bitterly.

‘Hush.' I said ‘Why so much tension? Whats the worst that can happen? They will not allow me to board the flight. That’s OK...I am not desperate to see Dubai. If they cut up rough, I will simply go home.’

He stared at me unbelievingly as I calmly went and spoke to the dragon lady who was running the Emirates operations and told her that I had lost my boarding pass.

 She almost blew a gasket.

‘HOW COULD YOU LOSE A BOARDING PASS?!!’ she screamed and Shekhar blanched and nearly shat his pants. ‘HOW COULD YOU?!!!!’

I was completely calm and said ‘OK...now that you have got that out of your system, let’s do something productive. I have lost the pass, and I am sorry about it – but shouting isn’t going to bring it back. Let’s get a fresh pass done.’

After fulminating for some more time, we got to do the whole thing again- new boarding pass – new immigration stamp – an interesting discussion with the airport police – new security stamp – the works.

I had taken my jacket off for security, and as I put it on again – I felt a rustling in my sleeve. I put in my hand to investigate, and came out with my old boarding pass! The bloody thing had been in my sleeve all along!

‘See this!’ I said to Shekhar  and showed him two boarding passes – both with immigration and security stamps.  His eyes almost fell out of his head. ‘Put it away sir....before they arrest both of us!’

But the reason why I was thinking about all this was an interesting experience I had today.

I was in Johannesburg, South Africa – waiting to board a flight to Perth, Australia on Qatar airways. Qatar airways has a hub and spoke system – so the flight was Johannesburg to Doha; and then change to a Doha – Perth flight. 

‘It’s a tight connection in Doha’ She-who-must-be-obeyed warned me ‘Only a couple of hours. So please don’t fall asleep or dawdle in Doha.’

‘Not to worry, ma’m’ I replied, giving her a snappy salute. ‘I shall be alert and sober.’

I reached the airport at 10 AM for a 3 PM flight and spent the time looking around the airport and shopping for curios.

However, it turned out that the flight was delayed  and delayed and delayed -  first they said that it would leave at 4.30, then 5.00 then 5.30. At first, I panicked – as it would leave very little time to catch the Doha Perth flight – but when the flight became very late and then very very late -  I relaxed  - I would definitely  miss the connection – so why worry? The airline would do something.

The Qatar airways guys came and told us to eat at the coffee shop on them – and thus I was convinced that this was going to be a long long delay.

We were supposed to board from gate A3, so I was sitting in the coffee shop right in front of the gate, where I could see the planes. There was no sign of a Qatar airways plane – a South Africa airways plane was sitting at Gate A3.

 I surfed the net as long as I could - had taken a South Africa SIM – but as the flight was so delayed, all my balance got over in accessing the internet. When I checked the balance it showed – Airtime – zero; Data – zero.  

At 5.00 PM, I got bored of sitting in the coffee shop and decided that this was a good time to take a shit – before I got into a crowded airplane – and made my way to the loo.

I had a satisfactory dump and was feeling the satisfaction of a job well done – and was  just washing my hands, when my phone rang.

‘Strange’ was my first thought ‘who has my South Africa number?’

‘Shit!!!’ was my second thought ‘Only the airline has my number. Hope there is no security issue with the check in baggage’

‘Hello?’ luckily incoming calls were free – thus I could take the call on a zero balance

‘Can I speak to Mr JO SHEEE?’

‘Er...speaking.’

‘I am calling from Qatar airways Mr JO SHEEE’ he said ‘Where are you now?’

‘Where am I now.....I am here...in front of gate No 3...’

‘Please come to the boarding gate sir...we are about to close the boarding.’

‘CLOSE THE BOARDING!!! WHEN DID YOU EVEN START THE BOARDING?!! I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR SO MANY HOURS!!’

‘Yes sir...everyone has boarded...please come immediately’

I sprinted to the boarding gate, thanking the lord that I had a South Africa SIM which they could call on.  Unlikely they would have called an India number – and I may not have taken a call from an unknown number on international roaming

I made my way to the plane and saw that it was a bit of a concealed entrance – the entrance was from gate A3, but then the path led to gate A5, where the plane was standing. No wonder I had not seen the plane.

‘All’s well that ends well’, I thought as I sat down. My bowels are empty and I was the last one to board the plane, as I normally like to do.

The new superhero in town

The new superhero in town!

The wife and the brat arrived after a couple of day to add to the natural wonders of South Africa and the veldt resounded to the sounds of the new wildlife.

'SANJU! eat this!'

'NO!I hate you! I hate food! I hate eating!  I hate drinking! I dont want to become fat like you!'

'SANJU! take a bath!'

'NO!I hate taking baths! Is there a tub bath? Is it the most inconvenient time I can think of for taking a bath? Have you run out of clean clothes for me to wear, so that I can insist on taking a bath and changing clothes? If not, then I dont want to take a bath.'

'SANJU! lets go to see this beautiful place!'

'NO! I HATE seeing beautiful places! I hate going out! I REFUSE TO LEAVE THIS HOTEL! I WANT TO STAY HERE ALL DAY LONG!'

'SANJU! get your nose out of that tab and see this beautiful penguin - view - ostrich - '

'NO. I HATE SEEING THE REAL WORLD! I have already seen this beforeon the TV / on the internet / on my tab / on those silly TV shows you both keep seeing all the time. '

'SANJU! FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! PUT THAT TAB DOWN!'

'MOOOOOOOOOM! TECHNOLOGY IS MY LIFE! I love only technology things!'

She-who-must-be-obeyed wasnt being obeyed, and maternal instincts prevented her from tearing her first born into tiny fragments and dancing on them like a little Nataraj, so she turned on me.

'THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!' she screamed at me, turning big and green. The INCREDIBLE HULK was on the loose. 'PUNY HUMAN!'

I shied like a startled fawn and jumped 10 feet away in fright!

'What! why? when? what did I do?'

'You set a bad example to her by being constantly on the phone or on the PC or on the tab or some other pestilential piece of technology. Be like a good madrasi husband and father - your only possession should be a lungi and a shirt. And that too you should wear alternatatingly. Either lungi or shirt. thats it.'

'But...but...but...'

'get that little tyke to eat properly or HULK SMASH!'

I tried to play the stern parent and turned on the little one.

'What nonsense behaviour is this?' I thundered, wagging my finger at her. 'Is this the way to behave? Eat some food at once, I say!'

There was a sudden flash of green as if some cosmic rays had suddenly hit us, and a crack of supersonic sound and the smell of ozone in the air. We covered our eyes at the flash, and suddenly had to cover our ears as there was a sonic attack in the air.

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!'

We looked at the scene dumbfounded - there was a new super hero in town! The daughter of Hulk was born anew.

'I HATE YOU ALL. LEAVE ME ALONE. LEAVE ME ALONE.'

She was big and green and sat in a corner.

she was .... THE INCREDIBLE SULK!

Diving with the sharks

Diving with the sharks

I set my alarm for 4.30 AM, and was so excited that I kept getting up in the night and checking my watch suspiciously.  Finally when the alarm rang at 4.30, I jumped out of bed with enthusiasm – because I was going shark cage diving!

(Not my photo - from internet)

The Great white shark is one of nature’s most efficient predators, and till very recently, the only way one could have a close up and personal look at this magnificent animal in the wild was by jumping in the water and shouting ‘AAARRGHH SAVE  MEEEEEEEEE...’ shortly before becoming a tasty snack for the hungry shark.

But now they have figured out a convenient way for you to enjoy a sight of this apex predator and survive the experience and go back and boast about it – they lower a cage into the water by the side of the boat and the divers can go and sit inside the cage. Then the boat wala dumps some fish waste into the water to attract the sharks and when the shark comes sniffing around, they tie some fish heads to a rope and throw them in the water. When the shark tries to snap at the fish heads, they jerk the rope and pull it out of the sharks reach – as you might tease a dog by offering it a biscuit and pulling it away when the dog jumps for it. Substitute the image of the dog with a giant tiger with huge fangs and rippling muscles.

(not my photo - from internet) 

Anyway, I was up at 4.30 and congratulating myself for being the first guy to awaken on a cold winter morning, when I heard some voices and laughter from the street below; and when I looked down I saw that it was a bunch of my young fellow hostelites – they were just coming back from a night of partying and clubbing.

I suddenly felt very old.

I got ready and waited and finally at 5.30 a guy came to the door and asked ‘Shark cage diving’ In a deep voice and ushered me to the collection van. He was tall and muscular and looked like a hero of a Wilbur Smith novel. You could just imagine him being a rancher in wild Africa or an elephant hunter or a diamond prospector or any amount of heroic figures.

The bus was full of sleepy figures and as it was dark and misty outside, I also decided to rest my eyes for a minute – and when I opened them – I had been magically transported to the Shark Cage diving office at Gansbaai.

‘Wow – that was quick!’ I thought....but then I realised that I had been asleep for two hours and felt a little crushed.

We got out of the bus and went up to their office where they had a nice breakfast laid out. We were all hungry and loaded our plates with all kinds of stuff. We had just started tucking in when the organiser comes and says ‘Guys – you better chew your food very thoroughly – make it into a fine paste before you swallow it.’

‘Why?’ I asked thickly, my mouth full of ham sandwich.

‘Well, there’s a bit of a swell ,so it might be rough on the boat. So when you puke, it’s better to puke out a fine paste rather than big bits which might get stuck in your windpipe’

That caused a bit of a silence in the hall, as everyone looked at their plate and thought about all that was already inside and a lot of people quietly put their plate aside.

After everyone was through, the dive master gave us hi s instructions. He explained how the thing would work – the fish waste would be put into the water to attract the sharks and once the sharks came, they would lower the cage in the water and five people at a time would enter the cage. When the boat crew saw a shark they would shout ‘get down!’ and the divers should go underwater and they would see the shark clearly.

‘Absolutely no one will put their hands or legs outside the cage – no one will try to touch the shark. Got it?’

We nodded our heads solemnly. We liked our appendages attached. 

‘Everyone has to put on a wetsuit before getting into the water. Please don’t urinate in the wet suit – apart from causing the suit to stink, you will drive the sharks away as they don’t like the smell of human urine.’

OHO – I thought – That’s what it is! A survival mechanism! When you are scared you piss in your pants because it drives the sharks away. 

‘If you pee in your wet suit you clean it, and if you crap in your wetsuit you buy it! Also, another thing – the side of the boat on which we hang the cage is the shark side, and if you feel sick and want to puke then the other side is the sick side. Please do not puke in the cage, or in the toilets or from the top deck. Please do not try to hold it in either – feel free to puke on the sick side – there is no shame in it, it’s a normal human reaction.’

And with these encouraging words, we got on the ship and made way for the shark point.  It was a bit choppy on the way out, but nothing too bad. Once they came to their place, they started throwing the fish bits out to attract the sharks.

After an anxious wait, suddenly the cry went up ‘There! Look there!’

And underneath the water  I saw the familiar torpedo shape and triangular fin which I had seen a thousand times before in pictures and photos and movies!

The great white shark!

What a sight it was! It was at least 4-5 metres long – that’s 13 feet of killer shark! Wow!

It was as exciting as seeing a tiger on a safari!

(photo by fellow diver Kosmas Koumianos  - http://www.kosmaskoumianos.com)

‘Now do you believe us?’ the dive master asked in excitement ‘Now do you believe that there are great white sharks?’

‘There’s another one!’ the cry went up. Then a disappointed voice ‘That’s only about 3 metres...its only a baby.’

The boat crew chuckled. ‘You jump in then, and YOU tell him that he is a baby.’

They lowered the cage and everyone started to get changed into wet suits. Man, it was a real struggle to get into that wet suit. I had to huff and puff and stretch and pull and nearly dislocate several joints before I managed to get into that suit.

By that time, the first five divers had entered the cage. They confidently jumped into the water and shouted ‘AAAAARRRGHHHHHH’

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Did they see a shark?’

‘no no..’ the dive master chuckled ‘the water is very cold’

‘DOWN GUYS DOWN’ a crew member bawled, and we rushed to the side of the boat to see the shark come in.

‘WOOOOOOOHOOOOOO!’ the divers screamed in joy as they came out of the water. ‘WHAT A SIGHT!’

‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’ and again all of them dipped their heads.

After a few minutes, the dive master swapped them out and it was my turn.

I eagerly jumped into the water and nearly had a cardiac arrest due to the shock of the cold water.

WHAT THE #@$*@#@! ARRGGHHHH...I CANT FEEL MY LEGS!  I CANT FEEL MY BALLS!

‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’ the crewman bawled and we dunked our heads under the freezing cold water. The cold cold water made my head ache, but I forgot everything as I stared at the huge creature in front of me.

It was massive. It was regal. It was a killer. It was the king of the sea.

That streamlined body, those rippling muscles, those teeth...I noticed anew – I knew it theoretically, but actually seeing it was something else – that it had two rows of teeth – one pointing outwards and one pointing inwards. Nothing caught in those teeth was going anywhere except inside the shark.

It was the same feeling you get when you see a wild tiger for the first time in a jungle – except of course that various parts of my body were shutting down due to the cold. Permanent sterility – here I come.

I came out of the water and gasped in air, and immediately came the stentorian shout –DOWN DOWN DOWN’  and I took a deep breath again and went down.

The shark had just swum lazily by, when it noticed the bag of fish heads – and in fraction of a second, it transformed from a quiet lazy swimmer to a killing machine! All muscles tightened and in less time than it takes to tell, it turned and zoomed towards the packet, mouth wide open showing all those teeth and coming straight at us.

The crewman pulled it away at the last moment, much to the irritation of the shark, who went off thinking WTF! and we surfaced and went WHOOOOO...WHAT A SIGHT, when the crew alerted us again ‘DOWN DOWN DOWN’

The shark was back and it was pissed! The crewman threw out the bag of fish heads again and the shark raced for it! No bullshit this time – it meant business. But again, the bag was pulled out but the shark couldn’t stop its forward momentum and came and crashed against the tank, right in front of my face!

We were less than 6 inches apart! I stared into that shark’s eyes at point blank range!

SHIT.

SHIT

SHIT

I almost let loose the natural shark repellent.

(photo by fellow diver Kosmas Koumianos  - http://www.kosmaskoumianos.com)

Nothing happened – the cage held, and the shark swam away bemused. But what a feeling it was! I burst upwards and screamed out WOOO HOOO as everyone applauded.

 It was the ultimate sighting.

‘You guys don’t know how lucky you are.’ The dive master said to us on the way back. ‘the weather, the lighting, the shark experience – it was the best we have had in months.’

No kidding, I said. It was awesome.

‘By the way ...’ the dive master asked as we were leaving. ‘How come you were not scared? I have seen so many people, and they would have shit their pants, but you were quite calm. How come?’

I shrugged.

‘Ah. The Shark was OK.....but not a patch on my wife. You should see her when she is in a temper.’ 

(this one by me ;0) 

The Wine tour

I love wine. I love it like I love Cricket.

Just like cricket, my interaction with it consists of reading about it than actually experiencing it. 

I may not be able to bowl a wicked bouncer or smash a ball for six, but by golly – I can sure talk about it. I can talk about with knowledge and passion and emotion and ....well, I can talk a lot about it, but haven’t touched a bat or ball for ages.

Similarly, I have read a lot about wine – I have read stories based on wine, loved characters who talk about wine, realised that the simplest way to show that a character is upper class and erudite is to show him having a deep knowledge of wine. I read about types of wine – cabernet sauvignon, and merlot and pinot noir and all that, and can talk glibly about tannins and grape varieties and how ironic it is that the famous Shiraz grape comes from a town in Iraq where it is probably illegal to make, drink or even think about wine, etc etc.

But actually drinking the stuff – not so much. 

I experimented as much as I could afford with various types of wines – but that was  a short lived experiment during my forced bachelorhood.

After the return of She-who-must-be-obeyed  my home wine drinking came to a screeching halt under her incandescent eye.  Trying to get friends to drink wine resulted only in incredulous looks.  Trying to make friends with people who were already wine drinkers got me even more incredulous looks.

She-who-must-be-obeyed sneered at my attempts to drink wine and grandly announced that she was sending me on a wine tour in South Africa.

 ‘Go and drink wine, you drunken sot.’ She said as she booked the tour ‘lower yourself to the level of the beasts in the field if you wish.’

‘What nonsense.’ I said, stung. ‘I will have you know that wine is a thing of great culture.’

‘The only way you will have culture in you is when you eat some yoghurt re!’ she retorted.

‘Anyway, the tiny tot has exams till then, so I can’t move anywhere – so you go a couple of days earlier and do all these things that I am not interested in.’

OK, I thought – it’s a good idea to keep her away from wine makers. She will sneer at them so much that they will get all dispirited and depressed and commit suicide or something and the whole of South African wine industry will be affected and it will be all my fault.

The thing about wine is that it is a beautiful and nuanced drink, and it is such fun to write about.

‘This wine has a deep straw colour with hints of lime green on the rim. The nose is a complex melange of tropical fruits, such as guava and papayas with greener Sauvignon blanc aromas such as asparagus and lemon grass. The flavours are rich and full and mirror the aromas on the nose. This wine is mouth filling with an apple texture, a slight grip on the finish and a lingering crisp aftertaste.’

‘She’ read this with a scowl  ‘Saala – is this wine or a fruit cocktail?’

This one is even better, I said – showing her the description of the Chardonnay   ‘There is an abundance of fresh fruit aromas on the nose; ripe honeydew melon, pineapple, peach and citrus fruit with a hint of toasted oak. The palate is fresh and fruit driven with a creamy mild palate, a hint of toast on the finish with a long zesty aftertaste.’

Would the writer be so passionate when writing about the actual fruit instead of the wine? I wondered.

This same writer must be the guy whom all the Indian restaurants employ when writing their fancy menus. A guy who can translate dal chaawal into ‘A delectable preparation of the finest golden lentils from central India, mixed with the aromatic  jasmine-white fluffy long grains of the finest rice from Kerala topped with shiny salt crystals from the romantic lands of Kutch.’

So the big day arrived -  and the very first day in south Africa, I was picked up at the hostel by a sweet lady who was our guide. I was the first person she picked up, and she went about the town picking up the rest of the group – an Indo-Canadian, A Scotswoman, a couple of guys from Ivory coast, a bunch of expat students from Cape university.

She started by taking us through the cellar and the factory and telling us how wine is made, but very soon took us to a table and started plying us with wine.We started off with a couple of Champagnes, then some white wines, then some red wines and then ended with some sweet wines.

‘This is a cabernet sauvignon’ she would say, pouring a little bit of wine into each glass . ‘It is a very young wine, bottled in 2013 and has top notes of jasmine, peach and whatever’  and we would all drink and say ‘hmm hmm’ and swirl the wine in our mouth and get amazed at the wonderful taste.

 It sounds like a load of cock when you hear about it – but you can actually get the various tastes that they are talking about. And when you think that these differing tastes were brought about without any external agents – purely through the fermentation of grapes – it’s bloody amazing! You have to try it to get it..

 To quote from the movie ‘Sideways’ – ‘I like to think about the life of wine...how it’s like a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I’d opened it on any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it’s constantly evolving and gaining complexity...and it tastes so fucking good!’

I could actually feel the difference between each wine and appreciate the qualities of different types of wine.

At first.

After the third winery, they were all tasting the same to me and we were all going HAHAHAHA and HOHOHOHOHO and slapping each other on the back. The ancient romans used to say ‘In Vino Veritas’ – In wine there is truth, but we can also say – ‘In Vino Companis’ – where there is wine, there is good companionship.

 The wine was excellent, the wineries were beautiful, the scenery of the wine country was simply outstanding, and the group was very friendly  - what more can one ask for?  We had a fantastic lunch at a winery– I had a Cape malay dish called ‘Bobotie’ – which was a sweet and spicy mince meat dish which was absolutely smashing.

At the last winery, there was also a cheese tasting, where we pigged out on different kinds of cheese -  from the fresh Feta cheese at one end ( which tasted like a very salty paneer) to an old blue cheese at the other end (which smelt and tasted like disgusting old socks) but had some truly delicious ones in the middle – one sweet fruity one which tasted as good as cheesecake and a couple of spicy ones which were simply yum.

At the end of it, she dropped us back at our hostels – and as I was the first to be picked up, I was the last to be dropped off. I didn't mind it at all as it gave me a chance to see Cape Town.

As she dropped me off, she called out to me and I put my hand in my pocked as I thought she was asking for a tip...

but it turned out to be quite the reverse!

‘As a reward for your patience, I would like to give you a present’ she said, and handed me a bottle of wine. ‘Please enjoy this with your family.’

I was speechless, and quite touched. What a lovely gesture.

‘Thanks.’ I said ‘Thanks a lot’  

And I truly meant it.