Likewise for several people Bangkok has been made identical with the sex capital of all the affordable touristy places around the world. This is primarily one of the reasons that petty businessmen and several others too escape from their regulated households, in the name of business to Bangkok and then return rejuvenated after fulfilling all their whims and fancies of life.

Thus we have stereotyped the place. This is one of the several reasons (apart from being habitual bargainers) that we could observe a general feeling of disrespect for our fellow Indian tourist folks at Bangkok and of course at several other places as well. We have always lived in our imagination of stereotypes.

We generalize. We see women in short skirts and take it for granted that the dress is some form of code language to invite people. This is the general feeling of a set of bachelor or pretentiously bachelor tourists who visit Bangkok. Just because sex industry is a long established profession in that society, it doesn’t mean that every free soul on the street is available.

Anyways on my recent visit to Bangkok, I was alone and since I had a few days to spare there I decided to experience it with a broader outlook. I dedicated a day for a candid city tour, trying my best to utilise all those resources that a local makes use of, the sky train, tuk-tuk, water way and so on and yes a guided bike tour of the city lanes and of course a walk round the city with a map in hand (around 12 Kms).

I noticed the amount of time people spent in eating. I will wake up at five in the morning and decide to take a walk, people would already be in the middle of their morning meal. I go back to the hotel, take a shower, eat my breakfast, come out and see another set of people eating. And very disturbingly, this happens all through the day and late into the night. The benches are never empty. There are no three meals a day restrictions and it seems, no one cooks at home too. The street food is the most defining and most persistent characteristic of the city.

During my walk I came across a shrine called the Erawan Shrine (near Chitlom sky train station). The shrine housed a statue that had 4 faces and looked like some Indian God. What was amusing that unlike our super regulated and oppressive temples, this shrine was amazing in its concept. They  had kept free incense sticks, louts flowers and some beaded garlands which people visiting it were picking and simply offering it to the deity.

There was no dress code restriction for commoners and people passing by, who in super fashionable dresses (mostly youth, unlike our Indian temples) were entering the shrine and offering prayers. It appeared that for a change the God had made an effort to reach out to the people.

I was busy gazing at it and trying to unravel it, when I was interrupted by a local gentleman. He asked me whether I knew whose statue was this. I told him that the people are referring it to be some 4 faced Buddha but it looks more like the Hindu God Brahma. I saw the feeling of content on his face. He reverted, yes, this is Brahma’s statue which people generally refer to as the 4 faced Buddha. During our course of discussion what struck me most was his humble acceptance that the Thai culture had a lot of resemblance with that of the Hindu India, especially the North Eastern part of it.

But what hurts them most is when the Indians either approach their cities and culture with extreme feelings. Like some visit Bangkok for the obvious famous sex centres or the ‘enlightened’ ones approach it as a cultural extension of India. The phrase that he used was ‘cultural colonialism’ and suggested that abstaining from such a feeling was the key to win over the normal local folks respect and love.

He admitted that India and its cultures always had and still have a lot to offer to the surrounding regions. It struck me very promptly that whenever we visit some other culture and see that something similar to ours is present there, then we develop a feeling of greatness about our own culture and feel that the others owe their culture’s depth to us. This in is social sciences has been referred to as Ethnocentrism.

Anyways we had a huge discussion and he suggested me a few places that I could visit for the next 2 days. One of the places is called Ayutthaya (sounds like Ayudhya) which is around 85 Kms north of Bkk upstream of the Chao Phraya river. Ayutthaya was also the ancient capital of Siam (Thailand) till it was burnt and destroyed by the Burmese Rulers by 1767 AD. The other places were the Bang Pa-In Royal palace complex (also called the summer palace of Thailand) and the last was of course any of the floating markets.

More of that in the next part

Adeel Amin was coming back from his footwear shop in the Khadda market, when it happened. He flew from his bicycle and hit the wall of a restaurant on the other side of the road. Before he could get up or realise what was going on, the roof came down on him.

His friends said he was lucky to have survived. His wife was glad he had survived, she had already offered a chadar at the dargah. His children were not orphans and his parents were happy that they didn’t have to suffer the death of a child.

No one, absolutely no one, told him that his life was worse than death now, that his lost legs made him a liability, that there was no hope that he will ever be able to walk again. He was not thankless but there is not much in his life to thank the lord for.

Thirty people had died in that blast, more than two hundred injured. He was in long list of people waiting for compensation that never came. They had to pull out his elder son out of school to tend to the shop, but there was not enough to go around. It did not take Adeel long to realise that suicide, sin as it was, was the only way to reprieve his family from all the trouble.

While Adeel was sinking deeper and deeper into his melancholy, his wife, Zainab, was quiet sure that god had not saved his life as a punishment. In a society where a woman’s resolve is never put to use, she showed amazing strength in a faculty she had never exercised.

November 30, Karachi

Under dire conditions, more often than one would expect, it becomes very difficult to distinguish between desperation and hope. Zainab’s faith gave her hope, while others saw it as desperate attempts of a sinking ship’s captain.

She had given up her family duties. At the young age of fifteen, her daughter had taken up responsibilities that will break the back of any adult. But Zainab had no other option; she could not let her husband wither away. She was afraid that one day she will wake to find that the half man under the sheets had melted away too.

Zainab had heard that there are places in India where prosthetic limbs are making miracles happen. She had to take Adeel there, she did not know how. Pakistan’s healthcare was by no means mediocre, but it was reserved only for the super-rich. A woman like her had more chances dragging her husband across the border than take him into one of the modern hospitals in her city.

She had no education. She had no rich relatives. Adeel had no savings. But to give up was as good as committing suicide. Allah did not permit it. She had to go on.

The Indian Consulate in Karachi was shut down by the Pakistani government after the Babri Masjid demolition. No one had cared to reopen it. She had heard that something ugly had happened in Mumbai a few days back. Karachi was in the global eye for all the wrong reasons. Her well wishers told her that if there was a time to give up on her fights, this was the time.

But she knew she had not even started yet.

December 20, Islamabad

Zainab had caught a train to Islamabad. It was the first time she had ventured out of Karachi. It was the first time she had boarded a train. It was the first time she had been unaccompanied by a man for a whole day away from home.

She had been to the Indian Consulate. She had stood in the queue, too shy to talk to anyone, too timid to demand attention. She had haltingly and reluctantly told the officer about her husband, her children and the pains that no one outside her family deserved to know. He looked stern but was sympathetic. But there was nothing he could do, he had said. The countries were at war, she had no money, no political backing. It takes months for people with resources.

Though he never uttered it, she had heard him say that in her case, it will take forever. And, even then, it may not happen.

June 26 2009, Islamabad

It’s surprising how short a time it takes to lose a lifetime of sanity. Zainab had boarded the train twelve times in less than six months. Since her last trip, she had not cared to return. She did not know if the man she was fighting for was still alive or not. Time had gone at him at remarkable efficiency. To those who cared to see, he may have lived a century already.

Though she did not know it yet, she had quietly and steadily become the talk of the capital and its circles of vanity. In a nation where hope was in such short supply, she was quickly gaining monopoly over a rare commodity. Her story was constantly getting more and more ink in the newspapers, socialite women who came to collect their visas to Europe enquired about her and the poor dropped a few coins in her lap. They didn’t know any other way of helping.

It didn’t take long for the rich and powerful to know of Zainab. There was something transcendental about this mad woman who was standing still while the family, the nation and every organizational structure around her was crumbling.

But her story was begging for a saviour. Though there was the occasion, not many who came forward had the character to be seen as heroes. The papers called them hideous opportunists, but to Zainab, they might as well have been farishte sent by Allah.

Gafaar Khan, a landlord with political aspirations, managed to convince Zainab that his intentions were noble and he didn’t need the money anyway. He promised not just to arrange for the visa, cover all the expenses but also to send one of his men to stay with her all along the treatment. It was his zakat for the year, he said. Zainab had no reason to doubt his intentions; her faith had told her all along that someone will come to help. She had been waiting for it all along. She was confused why one his assistants was trying so hard to convince her that she must not refuse the offer.

July 30, New Delhi, India

Zainab was surprised how easy the world was for the rich. But she was not complaining. Adeel was in India now; it had seemed nothing less than another universe. But they were here now, she kept telling that to Adeel as they came out of the airport.

Adeel had stopped talking during last few months. There was nothing inside him that needed to be broadcasted. When Zainab told him that they were going to India, he thought she had finally lost it and felt sorry for her. But looking at the palatial hospital, he realised how far his wife had gone to save him.

Modern medical science had progressed enough to replace lost limbs without any complication. But double amputees were still seen as a fringe group. Success called for as much resolve from the patient as expertise from the medical staff. Zainab was sure that at the best hospital in India, they were in safe hands. It’s Adeel that she wanted to focus on.

At the biggest artificial limb center in the country, Adeel could see patients had come over from all over the world. There were children from Africa as well as wealthy people from western countries, all in search of a limb and normal life. As normal as a life without limbs could be.

Zainab’s story was already known by the medical staff. Doctors smiled at her in the corridors and nurses often brought her home cooked food. They always told her that things will be better; she assumed they meant Adeel will walk again.

Adeel had never seen such opulence in life. He could not imagine hospitals can be such sweet smelling places, with soft beds, TV, good food and nurses at the push of a button. Often he will wake up feeling good about life, until he remembered. But his depression didn’t last long.

He had to get up early in the morning, finish his breakfast and was taken out for exercises. Doctors said his upper body didn’t have the strength to support the legs and he needed to wait till he had it. In the meantime, he was put through the processes used for above knee amputees.

Back in Pakistan, he had seen wooden and leather artificial limbs that screamed invalid from a mile away. Here he was surprised by the options he was given: composite plastic, carbon fiber and myoelectric etc. He kept talking to Zainab about the material details that the doctors told him.

Sometimes, he will get philosophical. But Zainab didn’t mind, so long as he talked. She also wondered with Adeel how ironical it was – on one hand human life had such little value, and on the other so much effort was being dedicated to restore a lost limb.

December 17, Wagah Border, India – Pakistan

It’s been six months of regimented training. Adeel was back on his feet and it was a lifetime of achievement. For the first time in his life, he had got back less than what he had lost, but he could not be happier.

Zainab knew this day will come. She had dedicated her whole life to this. She felt a vacuum that she needed to fill with a new purpose. Adeel had said no to the flight and wanted to walk across the border to his homeland. It was swiftly and gladly arranged by Gafaar Khan.

On a Friday, late afternoon, he looked back at India. This was not the country of demons, butchers and violent rapists that he had heard about. He promised Zainab that they will come again and walked across the border to the waiting arms of his family, Gafaar and a few photographers.

This post is submitted to the Apollo hospitals- Modern health care touching lives contest held at Indiblogger.

Let’s take an example from the romance capital of the world. It is hard to imagine anyone having any negative thoughts about the Eiffel Tower. But, when it was being built, the artists of France revolted against the construction and did all they could to stop it. Here are excerpts from a petition written to the then Minister in charge:

“We, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and passionate devotees of the hitherto untouched beauty of Paris, protest with all our strength, with all our indignation in the name of slighted French taste, against the erection…of this useless and monstrous Eiffel Tower … To bring our arguments home, imagine for a moment a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack, crushing under its barbaric bulk Notre Dame, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the Louvre…”

It was reviled and hated. Be it the Sun temple in Konark or the Taj Mahal, stories abound of the cruelty that was inflicted on the workers and strain these structures put on the economy of those times. But we don’t remember that. In collective memory, grand structures can elevate chieftains to kingship and kings become emperors.

Seen in that light, Mayawati’s grand new Lucknow may actually become her claim at immortality. She knew we won’t matter and she traded us for her admirers from the future. We are just too close in time to see her genius.

Even Jayalalitha is smarter than she is paid credit for. Her planned statue of ’Tamil Thai’ (No, it does not mean a it’s not a pad dosa dish, it means Mother of Tamil) to be built at cost of 100 crores is her ticket to posterity.

Anyhow, what where we are taking you today is a quiet little place that could not be so close to Kolkata, yet so away from all the bustle. The name is Bansberia. It’s a small town. This small town has the Zafar Khan Ghazi Mosque and Dargah and a beautiful terracotta temple.

First, the mosque. Zafar Khan Ghazi Mosque is one of the earliest Muslim monuments in Bengal, it was built in 1298 AD. It is said that the Mosque is built on the foundations of some Hindu temple. It can also be seen that it is built from stones from temples, quite a few of them have Hindu deities on them. So, you can drop that burning tyre, see it as a beautiful coming together of two religions and postpone that riot you are planning for some other day. And, some other reason.

There is this huge ancient tree that stands above all other structures in the compound. It is probably older than all of them too. If you are one those weird freaks who is interested in what stone was used, what school of architecture influenced it, its state of preservation and arches and finials and motifs, please go and stick your head here. I have no patience to write about things I know nothing about.

All I know is that it is beautiful place, it’s on the banks of Ganga, it’s close to Kolkata and it has a very interesting history that you can read about elsewhere. The structure has been a pain for architects to classify as it does not conform to Hindu temple style or a Muslim temple one. We will be glad if you are nearby and pay a visit to the mosque, it’s totally worth it. Unless, you are one of those headless Hindu extremists. If that is the case, you should just stay home, never venture out, eat pakodas and deep fries and die an early unnatural death.

Now, a few miles from the mosque is a beautiful terracotta temple. It is a lost form and you need to see this before the next heavy downpour. The tantric influenced, Moscow-tower-influenced-buena-vista-inspired Hangseshwari temple closeby is the more famous of the Bansberia structures.

But Sid fell for the terracotta Ananta Basudeba temple and rightfully so. The temple walls are filled with carvings of war, life scenes and of course, love (making). The temple is unique, even in our land of temples and you should see it for real. For now, make do with this.

I never did. Never became a champion too. But who cares. Breakfast is for weenies. Babies and animals need to stuff themselves as soon as they wake up. I planned on being neither.

Using my own will and volition, I always chose to stay in bed and wake up after the rest of the world has gone to their offices or anywhere else their mundane lives took them. I indulged in food only when my heart and stomach agreed on an appropriate time.

Then I got a job. And, I got married. Now, I know all about animals, babies and mundane lives. Someone was bullshitting about the champion part. My desi firang friends tell me how lucky I am to be in India where breakfast options are so endless. You have the Punjabi parathas, southern upma, vada and idlis, North Indian kulchas and chole bhaturas. Then, there are so many other items that no particular region can lay claim to – poha, roti bhaji, puri subji, maggi noodles etc.

Now, we have also woken up to western breakfast items, such as breads, baked beans, porridge, croissants and what not. I can buy some ten kinds of breads from my neighbourhood kirana store. Atta, whole wheat, multi grain, garlic and even focaccia, whatever I fancy, it’s all there.

You will think that we never have to think of breakfast again. On the contrary, it remains the most perplexing meal of the day. Toast is too light, paratha is too heavy, idli is too bland, puri is too oily and who is going to do all that cooking in the morning.

One morning, a newspaper advertisement informed that our lives have changed forever. 2 minute oats had arrived. It does not give you any guilt, it is perfectly healthy, filling and it has the cool ring to it that all new things do. We went to the Big Apple store and bought a string of the pouches. Next morning, we were having Quaker for breakfast like a true amrikan at heart. It happened for a few days. We went to bed watching Mad Men and Modern Family and woke up to a Chicago born breakfast.

It was perfect. Masala oats was the best thing that had happened to us in a long time. We could sleep late, have proper breakfast and reach office in time. We started with the Homestyle Masala, and within a couple of days, had tried all the variants. Apart from a horrid sounding strawberry flavoured oats. A few days later, Saffola launched a similar range. They had some flavour sickness (kesar pista!!) too but were at par with Quaker.

During the whole breakfast experiment, my wife underwent some unexpected transformation. Normally indifferent to the appeal of things, she was falling harder for oats than she had fallen for me. Within a week, she had called my mother, my two sisters, her brother and numerous other friends about our new find. She would call them a few days later to follow up if they had tried and liked any particular offering. If anyone had tried and didn’t quite agree on all points, a flavour war would ensue. My mother should have tried the Classic Masala not the bland Veggie Twist. “Why can’t she get it right,” she will crib to me.

She had turned into a marketing monster. She was not on their pay rolls, she was not a wholesaler and she was not getting any incentives. But she had become an advertiser’s dream. Into the second week, she was buying them herself and distributing to the old ladies in our neighbourhood. It had become a part of the gift basket when we visited our friends.

However, after two weeks of an intense love affair, a few cracks started to appear in the story. The Quaker oats were all too spicy. A As if their market research had come up with one conclusion, a very obvious one – Indians love spices. So, they just packed it in. We tried their pohas and they had the same problem too. We continued with the Saffola ones for a few days more.

But clearly the love story was over. For good. The companies were putting horrors on the shelves. A Lemony Veggie Mix? A Kesar flavour? The experiment had turned into a farce. We were intimated and put off by this new oats guy who thought it could be everything – sweet, spicy, lemony and whatever else.

The novelty had worn off. Now, a month later, we still have a few sachets rotting at the bottom of the top cabinet. Somewhere, next to the iPod Touch that we had bought on a whim. They stay hidden, so we don’t have to see them and feel guilty. Or, stupid. We were neither the classic spice eating Indians nor the new Indian bitten by oatsophilia.

We were off the charts of the market researchers and oats is now off the menu for us.