3) Just off Jacob Circle - and sadly ignored:
"Honking Will Not Make The Car In Front Disappear."
2) On the approach to the Bandra-Worli Sealink:
"No Two-Wheelers. No Three-Wheelers. No Buffalo Carts."
1) On the famous accident spot the Western Express Highway:
"Overtakers Often Meet Undertakers."
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Just one more thing
Colombo is a pretty town, all lush and verdant in sharp contrast to Bombay. Life here seems to be good: there’s no evident vast wealth, but there’s also little sign of the extreme poverty that scars every city in India.
Six months or so ago, the Sri Lankan civil war finally ended. Everyone reports that life is infinitely more relaxed, as you’d imagine now that the threat of suicide bombers and air raids has receded. But the signs of recent conflict are still everywhere: the ubiquitous soldiers with big guns, a two-mile late-night car journey stopped three times at checkpoints by security forces (one of whom seems to be pissed). Next morning, the Daily News under my hotel door is blatantly just government propaganda: Pravda in paradise.
Getting off my late-night plane back, there’s a large party of tall young men in matching suits just ahead of me in the immigration queue. They are getting a lot of attention for 3 a.m., and I suddenly recognise one or two of them: it’s the Sri Lankan cricket team.
I can exclusively report that their Aussie coach Trevor Bayliss argued with the immigration man about his swine flu declaration form; that mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis had to wait ages for his suitcase, holding up the rest of the team; and that star batsman Mahela Jayawardene is surprisingly short.
Good spying work. I should be a detective. Where’s my trenchcoat?
Six months or so ago, the Sri Lankan civil war finally ended. Everyone reports that life is infinitely more relaxed, as you’d imagine now that the threat of suicide bombers and air raids has receded. But the signs of recent conflict are still everywhere: the ubiquitous soldiers with big guns, a two-mile late-night car journey stopped three times at checkpoints by security forces (one of whom seems to be pissed). Next morning, the Daily News under my hotel door is blatantly just government propaganda: Pravda in paradise.
Getting off my late-night plane back, there’s a large party of tall young men in matching suits just ahead of me in the immigration queue. They are getting a lot of attention for 3 a.m., and I suddenly recognise one or two of them: it’s the Sri Lankan cricket team.
I can exclusively report that their Aussie coach Trevor Bayliss argued with the immigration man about his swine flu declaration form; that mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis had to wait ages for his suitcase, holding up the rest of the team; and that star batsman Mahela Jayawardene is surprisingly short.
Good spying work. I should be a detective. Where’s my trenchcoat?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Six and out
I wandered down the steps of the lovely, basic, rustic guest house where I stayed ten days ago in the middle of Dal ni Pol, one of the labyrinthine close-quarter communities that make up the eastern side of Ahmedabad. I was planning to go and have a good look at the handsome Jain derasar or temple opposite, but I didn’t get that far as a gang of kids blocked my path.
Not in a Gorton sense though: it was simply that they were playing cricket and they invited me to have a bat. “Bondjour, mussir” said one. I could have been well offended by that, but I let it slide. Instead, I took my guard, musing on the benefits of sledging in French, and waited for the nine year-old with the whippy left-arm action to wang down the small plastic ball.
The first ball was short of a length, and I played an ugly, Collingwood-esque hoik to the leg side, over the cow fielding at short midwicket, and away for two runs. A good start: so not wishing to get over-excited, I blocked the next two, good length balls both of them. The gaggle of youngsters in the slips started chirruping away.
Then my eyes lit up: a slow long hop. I swished across the line and caught a big top edge, the ball spiralling over all the tiny fielders and onto the roof of a house. Uh-oh.
Really sorry, I said, I’ve lost your ball. Can you get it down? No, not till the people who live there get home next week. How much are they worth? Oh don’t worry about it – just three rupees (about 4p). I offered three rupees, and not one of these 15 or so kids, all of them poor by any standard, would accept it from me.
One of them went into his house and brought out another ball. I told them that my turn at batting was over – six and out by Birmingham rules – but they insisted I have a bowl. So they got to laugh at my risible leg-break action and I think the entertainment was probably worth a lot more than three rupees.
Not in a Gorton sense though: it was simply that they were playing cricket and they invited me to have a bat. “Bondjour, mussir” said one. I could have been well offended by that, but I let it slide. Instead, I took my guard, musing on the benefits of sledging in French, and waited for the nine year-old with the whippy left-arm action to wang down the small plastic ball.
The first ball was short of a length, and I played an ugly, Collingwood-esque hoik to the leg side, over the cow fielding at short midwicket, and away for two runs. A good start: so not wishing to get over-excited, I blocked the next two, good length balls both of them. The gaggle of youngsters in the slips started chirruping away.
Then my eyes lit up: a slow long hop. I swished across the line and caught a big top edge, the ball spiralling over all the tiny fielders and onto the roof of a house. Uh-oh.
Really sorry, I said, I’ve lost your ball. Can you get it down? No, not till the people who live there get home next week. How much are they worth? Oh don’t worry about it – just three rupees (about 4p). I offered three rupees, and not one of these 15 or so kids, all of them poor by any standard, would accept it from me.
One of them went into his house and brought out another ball. I told them that my turn at batting was over – six and out by Birmingham rules – but they insisted I have a bowl. So they got to laugh at my risible leg-break action and I think the entertainment was probably worth a lot more than three rupees.
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