Flip-Flop

It happened on our way back from Frankfurt airport.

We had been to the airport to drop a friend of Paru’s mother, who stayed with us during the weekend and was now returning to India. Paru was quite fond of this aunty – she had pleasant childhood memories of times the two families spent together – and she was sad aunty was leaving.

It was a working day, and I wanted to get to office soon. The drive to Frankfurt took about an hour, and I hoped we could drop aunty and get back by around 10 am. I was wrong.

Aunty had excess baggage – she shopped to her heart’s content while in Europe – and Paru was worried she would be penalized for it. She had prepared aunty for this eventuality, and we hoped that by going early she could be among the first to check-in and hence stand a good chance of her entire luggage being accepted.

We reached the airport three hours before the flight departure-time, and found that the Air India counter would open only an hour later. Aunty suggested we leave, saying she would manage on her own. Without displaying the slightest of hesitation, I accepted. Paru didn’t say anything either.

We said our goodbyes, and before we left aunty asked us how she could reach us “if there was an emergency”. We told her how to dial our mobile number without the country-code, and pointed to the pink-colored telephone booths nearby. Then, we left.

It was a bit odd, leaving her like that, but I told myself not to get emotional about the matter. Paru was feeling very uneasy, I could see it.

“She doesn’t have any Euros with her.” Paru said.

“She has a credit card isn’t it? She’ll manage.” I replied.

We walked to the car park, paid for the parking, and drove out of the airport. The uneasiness lingered.

“We should have stayed back, isn’t it?” Paru asked.

“Probably. But there’s no point thinking about it now, is there?”

We were on the auto-bahn, and the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it was in the other direction. I focused on the road.

“It is a very Indian thing.” I said. “This habit of staying back until the train or flight leaves.”

“We are Indians.”

“I know, but what I meant was that it is a cultural thing, which is done for the sake of tradition. We need to be more practical and let go of such traditions, at times.”

Paru didn’t reply. The silence was unbearable. I switched the radio on.

“Could you turn it off, please?”

I turned it off.

“I’ll keep worrying about what happened with her luggage until I hear from her after she lands in India.” She said. “I wish we’d stayed back at least until she checked-in her luggage.”

I didn’t reply. The traffic in the opposite direction had eased; most people had already reached their workplaces. After a while, I spoke again.

“Shall we turn back?”

She turned towards me.

“I’m serious. We’ve driven for about 15 minutes now, so in another 15-20 minutes we should be back at the airport, which would give us some time before the counter opens.”

She took a while to reply.

“You don’t mind?”

“No.”

“We can work a little late in office today isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. So shall we take this exit?”

We took the exit, entered a small town, and turned back towards the auto-bahn in the direction of Frankfurt. Soon we were driving in the opposite direction. Paru seemed relieved, and relaxed.

“Shall I switch on the radio?”

She smiled.

“I never knew that the direction we’re driving in could make such a difference to your mood!”

She gave a bigger smile.

As we drove back to the airport, a couple of streams of thought were running through my mind.

Firstly, the change in direction of driving. One moment we were going one way, the way we had planned, and the next we were going in the opposite direction – a change triggered by a momentary exchange. We would now have a totally different experience: encounter different cars, meet different people, see different sights. What did it mean? I like to think – or be under the illusion – that I’m in control of what I’m doing and where I’m going, and such events where “something else” seems to be in control leaves me intrigued and uncomfortable. It was as if my life branched into two, one going the way back home, and the other towards Frankfurt.

Secondly, the change in direction of thought. What made me change my mind and decide to go back? Was it because I didn’t want Paru to feel uneasy the whole day thinking about what would have happened to aunty and her luggage? Or was it because I didn’t want to face the guilt upon learning that aunty really needed our help at the airport? Either way, my decision was based on something to do with Paru and me, rather than genuine concern for auntie’s welfare. And that didn’t feel too good.

We reached the airport, parked the car, took the elevator, walked towards the lounge – throughout experiencing a strange feeling of “we were here just a little while ago”, a feeling that wasn’t really deja vu, but a sense of being part of a movie that was controlled by someone else who was playing with us just as an editor plays around with parts of the film, replaying bits and re-arranging snippets – so we walked towards the departure lounge and found aunty walking towards an escalator.

She had checked her luggage in – with no problems, Thank God, she said – and she was very surprised to see us. Paru explained how worried she had been, and aunty was moved.

“So typical of you!” she said to Paru, giving her a warm hug. “But you shouldn’t have worried – I would have managed.”

We spent some more time talking to aunty before leaving. On our drive back, I thought again about how we should have been on that stretch of the road not at that moment but some time back. I then knew I would be writing about this episode, even this very sentence about knowing I would write all this, and you would be reading it, and probably reflecting over it and talking about it with someone….. all these triggered by that one moment where something within me decided I would change direction – flip-flop.

Photo of the week – 3

We were at Frankfurt airport last week, to receive a family friend. While walking along a corridor that connected two buildings, I saw this lady sitting outside, next to a parapet surrounding a half-enclosed balcony that ran along the corridor. I initially thought she was praying; a closer look revealed that she was simply basking in the warmth of the sun. What luxury!

A Treasure chest

In the last few days I came across many reports that spoke of Manmohan Singh’s appointment as Finance Minister in 1991, and the turnaround in the economy he engineered. Repeated references to the year, 1991, triggered a train of thoughts.

What did I do in 1991, I wondered.

It was the year I completed my schooling, my 12th standard. At the beginning of the year I donated my tonsils. Then there were a couple of picnics with schoolmates; those were our last few months together, and we wanted to have some fun outside the school boundaries. There were many group photographs. There was also a threat from a dada of our class asking me to stop “going behind” a girl I rather fancied. He fancied her too, but his threat was along the lines of “she is my sister; leave her alone”. I left her alone.

Then came the board exams – bad – followed by entrance exams – worse. I then had to move to Bangalore for my graduation (under-graduation, if you follow American terminology). New place, new college, new hostel. The hostel was managed by a strict octogenarian who switched of the hot-water boilers by 7 am (so we all had to finish our bath by then), peeped into our bedrooms from time to time (curtains were forbidden), and held a roll-call at dinner time to ensure no one was out late (we jumped over the gates after dinner anyway).

Sketchy details, at best. A pity, really, because memories are our biggest wealth – the more we have, the wealthier we are. How do we preserve this precious commodity?

Of the different ways to preserve memories, letters, journals and photographs are the ones that come readily into mind. Photographs are common; the other two less so. Had I maintained a regular correspondence with someone during those years, my treasure chest labeled “1991” wouldn’t appear so depleted. Had I maintained a journal, the details would probably have been richer.

I hope not to carry such regrets about 2004. I now have a blog; I have to maintain it well.

Secularism exemplified

The New York Times, on the recent happenings in India:

“In a milestone that says much about this vast nation’s diversity and capacity for coexistence, Gandhi, an Italian-born woman raised a Roman Catholic, is making way for a Sikh prime minister who will be sworn in by a Muslim president, A.P.J. Abdul Kalam.”

How true.

On a related note, we now have a scientist for a President and an economist for a Prime Minister. Symbols of a new India?

The cleansing act

I do not know if it was the fragrance that wafted in through his windows that prompted it, or simply the sunny weather portending little rain. This evening our neighbour – whose garden received a divine shower on Saturday – was out with a purpose in mind and a hose in hand.

One has to only wait and watch the growth of that hedge to ascertain the potency of this combination of sunlight, water, and a fertilizer frequently wasted.

Photo of the week – 2

We live in a quiet, residential area in a small town around a hundred kilometers south of Frankfurt. Houses in the neighbourhood – elegant sloped-roof cottages – have well maintained gardens, which, come spring, exhibit impressive blooms. Each morning I look forward to the ritual of lifting the window shutters and taking in the image of a pretty neighbourhood draped in sunny, wet, cloudy, misty or snowy outfits.

This morning I casually looked out into the street when I saw a man dressed in red shirt and trousers, standing awkwardly with his legs apart in front of a tall hedge that surrounds a nearby cottage. He was a dark skinned person, very much like the Sri Lankans we see in these parts, and in his hands were a bunch of white papers. What caught my attention were his peculiar mannerisms: he looked this way and that, like a boy about to commit some mischief, and then thrust his papers into what seemed to be an opening in his shirt. Then, he slowly turned towards the hedge.

“Oh NO!” I cried, “Not HERE!”

It was unbelievable, outrageous and incredibly hilarious. I hopped to the bedroom, picked up my camera, and was back at the window while he was still at it.

Although it was difficult to keep the camera steady (my wife and I were laughing so much) I managed to capture what is, without doubt, the photo of this week.

Automation blues

System failures often lead to comical situations. I was in a queue at the office canteen counter, having picked-up my pretzel and orange juice for breakfast, when the computer that was used for billing stopped working. It simply “hung”, and then the system restarted (I could see Windows XP starting up). The lady at the counter, trained at nothing more than pressing large icons on the touch screen, had little idea on how to proceed. As the queue grew longer she turned progressively jittery, until a colleague came to her rescue by suggesting we all move to a counter nearby.

The queue moved (it was a bit like a train of people moving in unison, each one with their bananas, croissants, apples, sandwiches, fruit-salads, juices – the Breakfast Express, if you like) and the lady came behind this new counter, only to find that this system was not turned on at all.

It took a while for the counter to start functioning again, and by then the queue was so long that the security guard came around to see what the problem was. Some people were amused, some were not. The poor lady at the counter was still bemused.

It is a tricky thing, automating processes like these. To the end user – people buying snacks at a counter – it seems quite unnecessary: the transaction is very simple and hardly seems to justify anything more than a cash register at the counter. Why have a computer here? The reasons are not so apparent: there may be a need to store all transactions digitally (as a company policy) and it may also be useful to gather statistics (to plan inventory).

While it is nice, in general, to have a manual process that works as a backup for the automated one, this becomes quite crucial in areas where the end user sees no direct benefits of automation. You may tolerate a system delay at an airport booking counter (it is difficult to imagine a world without computerized ticketing systems), but if the same happens at a bakery in your neighborhood, you’d seriously consider baking your own bread.

Photo of the week

Inspired by a site from Matthew where he plans to put up one photo a day for ten years, I am starting something similar, but less ambitious. The intention is to put up one photograph every week, reflecting something – a place, event, person etc – about the week.

The game of Siedler we played today resulted in one of the players creating a symmetrical “fortress” around the numbers 4 and 6.

Musical communion

This morning on our drive to office we were listening to western classical music on the SWR2 radio channel. It was drizzling outside, and the soft, rhythmic dribble of raindrops on the windows infused a mellow fuzziness into the music and the scenery around.

As we turned into the parking garage, a new piece began – one we recognized but could not place precisely. The best pieces always begin just at the end of our drives, my wife and I told each other. I parked, stopped the engine, but left the radio on. We didn’t feel like leaving. The clear, striking notes of the piano filled the surroundings – now dark and silent – with an enchantment that was impossible to let go off.

We sat where we were, immersed in melody and darkness.

Two cars away there was a man sitting, like us, staring into the void. We were not alone in this concert hall, and that brought a smile to our faces. When the piece ended, we got out and so did he. Our eyes met, he smiled and nodded; I nodded back. It was a moment of communion – indescribable and rare.

Digital Dilemma

Every picture may tell a story, but there are stories behind the pictures too, ones that could have led to a very different set of pictures. Simply put, we could have ended up returning from Venice without most of those nice photos.

The constraints of memory

A week before we left for Venice, we decided to buy a new digital camera. We already had a pocket-sized digital camera, and our earlier plan was to carry it in addition to our bigger SLR camera that used film. Then, after discussing the pros and cons of upgrading our SLR to a digital one (with which we could still use the lenses of the old SLR), we decided to go ahead.

So with three days to go, we bought the Canon Digital Rebel.

Digital cameras come with a price (apart from being pricey in the empty-your-pocket kind of way): you need to be equipped with enough storage capacity to last the length of your stay. Our usual strategy with the older digital camera was to carry our laptop on long trips, and upload photos to the laptop before emptying the memory card for a fresh round of photos. This time, as our luck would have it, the new camera’s software refused to work with the laptop (it worked with our desktop, however). We had purchased a memory card that could carry around 150 photos, which, by our estimates, was not enough for even two days at Venice.

So on the day of the trip, a few hours before we left, we bought a compact hard-drive into which we could insert our memory card and store our photos. It was a flimsy looking device with an LCD display that indicated the file transfer from card to hard-drive. The transfer of files from this hard-drive to our computer could not be tested – we had no time on our hands – so when we left we were feeling rather uneasy about our decision to go completely digital so late. What if the photos we transfer to this hard-drive cannot be retrieved?

I decided on a backup strategy: at the end of each day we would transfer all photos from the memory card into the hard drive, but instead of emptying the memory card we would retain the best photos in the card and delete the rest. This would leave us, at the end of the trip, with at least 150 good photographs (which was the capacity of the card), even if the hard drive refused to work when we got back.

The idea sounded reasonable, but it had some interesting consequences. At the end of the first day, I deleted all but 25 photos. After day two, I had 50 “good” photos preserved in the card. Now that meant on day three there was space to take only 100 more photos! We exhausted the limit before day three ended, so I had to fish out the hard drive in the middle of a bridge, transfer from the card to the hard-drive, and then clean up the not-so-good ones from the card before we could go ahead and take more photographs.

As the days went by, I had to be more ruthless in deleting as many as possible and retain only the “masterpieces” (relative to the other ordinary ones). I also had to stop more and more often to perform the transfer-and-delete operation.

The deletion was not always easy – amongst the photos were many taken by my wife. I had to be objective, of course, but since different people have different notions of beauty there was a good chance that what I found a candidate for deletion was thought to be otherwise by my wife. Fortunately, she let me do as I wanted.

The last day left us with space for only around 25 photos. We spent a lot of time that day simply absorbing things around us without worrying about the best possible angle to capture something.

In the end the strategy turned out unnecessary – the hard-drive worked well and we were able to retrieve all of the 700 odd photos we took in Venice. And some of the ones I had deleted turned out better than the ones I had retained. “So much for your objectivity and aesthetic sense”, I almost heard my wife saying.

The auto power-off mystery

Very early on our trip, I noticed a strange behaviour of our new digital camera: every now and then the camera would shut its power off on its own.

My first guess was that it had something to do with the auto power-off setting, which could be set at different intervals (or even switched off completely). I verified the setting – it was at a comfortable two minutes, which was fine with me. I let it be.

Along the drive to Venice, when my wife was at the steering wheel, I would try to capture elements of the surrounding scenery whenever possible. On a few occasions, during the short window of time where I had to click, I found the camera off. I was almost sure there hadn’t been a gap of two minutes since the time I used it last.

After a while this got a little frustrating; I decided to probe further. It was clear that the auto power-off was not functioning normally. Further, I had noticed another curious aspect: once in a while the camera would switch on automatically, as if the power-off was a temporary phase. Was there a pattern in this strange behaviour?

There seemed to be a pattern, I thought. The interval between the camera switching itself off and then coming on automatically seemed to coincide with the auto power-off interval that was set. I decided to verify this: I set the auto power-off interval to four minutes, and waited for it to switch itself off. That happened soon, and I noted the time on my watch. Then, four minutes later I lifted the camera to check if it had come on, and as I had expected, it switched on before my eyes! I tested this behaviour again by setting the interval to two minutes, and the pattern repeated itself.

I told my wife we had received a freaky piece of equipment, with an inverted power-off logic programmed into it. She didn’t believe me; she thought I hadn’t learned how to use the camera.

After we switched driving-seats she tried it and fared no better – the camera went off and came on irregularly (and I allowed myself a short laugh). But even my hypothesis about the inverted logic failed when she tested it – there seemed to be no correlation between the setting and the time intervals with which the camera went off and came on.

Initial frustration slowly turned to resignation; we decided to make do with whatever photos we could capture when the power was on.

It was during lunch on the first day at Venice that I decided to take a closer look at the troubleshooting section of our camera manual. (The first attempt had revealed nothing more than some description about the auto power-off setting, but I wanted to check again). It was a bit of a struggle deciphering the contents of the German instruction manual, but after a while I came upon a point that seemed promising: check whether the battery compartment has been shut properly, it suggested.

I turned the camera over and gave the cover of the battery compartment a gentle push. There was a small click. My heart almost leaped.

The loose battery compartment cover turned out to be the cause behind all the unpredictable off and on behaviour. It also explained why my initial tests surrounding my theory had worked: after the time interval I had set passed and I lifted the camera to check if it had automatically come on, I probably put enough pressure on the battery compartment lid to ensure an electrical contact that resulted in the camera receiving power from the battery. If you are looking for something, chances are good you’ll find it.

The episode reminded me of what I sometimes hear at my workplace, when developers are irritated by customers who report trivial issues: always read the f***ing manual!