Friendship…. you find it in the weirdest corners

A long time ago, I used to think that as you grow older, and graduate from student to working adult, your pool of friends can only start to diminish, until is turns from a large ripple into a almost invisible drop of water.

But I realized that friendship is an incredibly amazing phenomenon – you find it when you least expect it; and you never know with whom you’re going to develop a friendship that defies time, distance and cultural differences. I’m a pretty sociable person, but I don’t get out and party too much – in order words, I make friends when doing the most normal things (like attending Spanish classes, at work, or simply by the rare opportunity of chance).

I’ve lived a pretty international life in the last 3 years, and following that lifestyle of travelling because of work, vacation and simply school, I’ve met people who inspire, have passion for things that you might never have imagined, and people who are really just rare jewels of kindness, goodness and love. In SCB, when we travelled to Chennai, India, for our 3-week long rotation, I got to know Feyi really well, despite her being my first African friend from Nigeria; despite the fact that I used to think blacks look fierce and a little too aggressive for my liking; and despite the fact that we rarely kept in touch before that. The last time I saw her was almost a year ago, but the beautiful character that she has made me always remember the strength of a person who had the courage to admit her mistakes and accept that she had done wrong; that she dared to ask for forgiveness, and know what was important to her. I admire her motivation and faith in wanting to be Nigeria’s next finance minister – an extremely ambitious ideal for any person just starting out. I appreciated her absolutely honest sincerity that made me slightly startled at the raw intensity of it all. But it was true, that in India, a place which left so many memories and invoked so many emotions, I found a true friend.

At work in SCB, back home in Singapore, I also made friends over time, with random people – colleagues on the floor, the secretaries and generally anyone who made the effort to chat for those few more minutes outside of work. There are some people that I really appreciate for making the first few months in a completely new office so much easier, and because of that, I am always grateful. From them I learnt the most important rules to stick by in the game of office politics, but also that work mates can be fun to hang out with; that it was crucial in whom you place your trust and confidence, because there were so many others who are ready to backstab you the minute they require to.

Then I came to Argentina and lo and behold, never did I expect to see another Singaporean so soon after leaving my homeland! Jace was here for the first month I was here – working of course, but we met up a couple of times and still keep in contact once in a while. And then SY, who I met because of our mutual friend – who has interesting ideas and a pretty crazy life – who I probably would not have met if we both remained in Singapore – and who constantly amazes me! She defies many social norms and expectations of Singapore lawyers, and it is refreshing while also quite hard to believe.

But of course, the friends that you’ve had since a thousand years ago and still keep in close contact are a rarity that always make me smile. I remember going for Mrs Chua’s tuition classes on Saturdays when I was in primary school; but first going to JH’s house for a yummilicious bee hoon lunch with her granny’s famous chilli. It was from those routine saturdays that we developed our friendship, which later led to yearly sleepovers (where we had to set the alarm at 12 am to have our midnight feast), then pen pal letters as we changed schools, but over time and difference in schools, we always stayed close, even though, I in Argentina, and she in Singapore, but going to London for her law exchange in just 2 days!

And Syl, who really helped me through a thousand things – crying in the middle of the night, driving over to see if I was ok, dinner at Pasta Fresca, shopping on random occasions, late night chats on the phone, and sleepovers. SMU was largely made up of the girls – and syl was one of those that really defined SMU life. Then there is Suzy, who by chance I met at Sports Camp in Uni year one, but only 2 years later got to know her better after our internship at Bloomberg. We don’t talk so often but when we do it’s always such a wonderful thing – and I can’t wait to see her little girl when she arrives! And Joyceee, who is going to get married next year – it’s amazing to see their lives bloom like that; some people are extraordinary and you know it’s such an honour to be part of their evolution.

There are also so many more that I have yet to write about, but it doesn’t mean their friendship isn’t worth mentioning. There are too many who have touched and impacted my lives, in littles ways and then big ones too. But most importantly I know at last that my hypothesis is no longer valid.

Your circle of friends will only get wider and wider – but that also depends on you.

Bus rides are a favorite of mine

Yesterday, I took the public bus here, called “colectivo” or “bondi” in lumfardo (the language made up of words unique to and spoken only by Portenos of Buenos Aires). It was such a delightful treat! I must explain why.

I’ve take buses all my life in Singapore, and almost all the buses in the last few years have been air conditioning installed. There was a period of a couple of years where mobile tv absorbed the attention of bus passengers, a small box usually installed at the left side of the SBS bus for passengers to catch up on CNA news, Just for Laughs jokes and other local shows. Buses usually get crowded during peak hours, as more and more foreignor pack our tiny island nation, particularly blue-collar workers from Asia. So naturally, public transport would be the preferred mode of transportation for them. On any bus ride home, you get to observe at close range the different people that made up the place you live in, and how as the neighbourhoods and districts change with the intertwining bus routes, the passengers getting on and alighting the buses also radically change. You have the chance to feel the heartland vibes, the city vibes, check out the latest fashion trends, and simply just look at the faces that pass you by.

This people-watching activity is of course not limited to bus rides around the Singapore city town. I’ve taken buses in Jakarta as well, and certainly it is a different experience from taking a taxi or being chauffeured around by a friend’s driver. You see the locals and they see you, both parties taking in the different dressing and mannerisms of the other, a fascination that is difficult to mask. I’ve taken buses in Hong Kong, where the double deckers are so distinctly Hong Kong; the view from the top takes you above that you can get from the ground; you get to take in the millions of people milling around on the streets, the congestion of the roads, and the almost identical shop signages in all neon colours imaginable. I love bus rides – they show you so much of the city or country you’re in.

The only buses that honestly intimidate me are the Indian buses. When I was travelling about India, I would stare out of my taxi window, open-mouthed and in absolute wonder, at the buses which were crammed full of people, just like sardines, and how the locals would hang off the buses just so they could get on it. How anyone would be able to get off the bus once they got on it always beats me. Like the rest of India, which fascinates me and astounds me simultaneously (check out the “India” category on this page), the buses of India leave me at a loss for words.

Coming back to where I currently live, Buenos Aires, Argentina, I must explain why the buses here are so different from what I am used to. In Singapore, the SBS buses are all painted in uniform red and white with the Singapore Bus Services logo printed on them; and while there are advertisements on them, they more of less still look like they are wearing school uniforms. Here, the buses have the large numbers in bold black font on one corner of the front – large and in your face. Having been used to the cashless EZ-link system (in which you just scan your EZ link card on a reader and it deducts the amount you need to pay) implemented in buses and MRT stations in Singapore for at least the last 5 years, I was at a loss the first time I came up the buses here and realized that the only way you could pay for your fare was using coins! What if you didn’t have coins then? Wouldn’t you run out of coins so fast if you have to dig around for slightly more than 1 peso each time you board a bus? I realized also that people here periodically go to the bank to change notes for coins – exactly the opposite of what we do in Singapore, where we just want to get rid of our coins for the much lighter and convenient notes.

Singapore, being such as safe and low-crime country, had made me take for granted all my life that I could walk around with my bag open, holding my wallet in hand, showing off my camera, ipod, and other valuables which I might be carrying around with me. Here, the first thing Susana warns me about is to always keep my bag in front of me and to clutch it tightly, with the zip in full view. Never never hold money or your wallet in your hand; and be careful if you’re using your handphone. Thieves and pickpockets are aplenty on the buses, and all around; so be extra careful especially if you’re not a local. So this was my mentality. I grabbed my bag tightly to myself, as I sat on the bus, surveying the environment for any weirdly-behaving pickpockets. But other than that, as I took bus number 152 along Avenida Santa Fe all the way to the microcenter – basically the Baires version of our Central Business District – I was enjoying the ride all the way. I loved staring outside the windows, at the shop-lined streets greeting me with beckoning sale signs. I loved how groups of teenagers would stand in their tights and boots next to old little grannies with their thick coats and very aunty sling handbags. I loved the contrast. And most importantly, I loved the fact that the bus was rocketing with Reggaeton! But I dídn’t love so much the fact that I had to run in my heels for the bus, and hop on to it just in time as the driver pulled away from the bus stop. I didnt enjoy that the driver was so incredibly grouchy it wouldnt have made a difference if you put a bittergourd to replace his face.

But overall, I really liked my first solo bus ride – I didn’t feel like such a foreignor anymore. I felt like I was finally blending in. I could speak the language, I could recognize the streets, I could communicate, and I could travel around on my own! One of many firsts, I’m sure. I am happy again, despite this dreadful cough that kept me in bed for virtually the whole day. Yes, I am happy.

1/3 of the world! (Available in 2 different colours.)

Currently among developing Asia, Malaysia’s GDP per capita at current market prices is the highest (approx US$7,600); almost double that of Thailand’s (approx. US$4,200). China is just a stone’s throw behind Thailand, and at it’s rate of GDP growth and tapering population growth, its GDP per capita will soon surpass the Thai kingom, leaving its current nearest competitor, Indonesia, trailing in the Chinese dust. The Indonesian muslim nation is fighting a close battle with Bhutan (both at approx US$2,400), which is widening the present gap it has with Sri Lanka and Philippines. The rest of developing Asia look like they will be developing for a long time, hovering around or below the US$1,000 mark.

What is interesting is how over the last 30 years, India has managed to decrease the differential its population has with China’s (which now stands at 1.34 billion), and catching up with the Chinese Dragon has to be largely attributable to China’s one child policy and “gendertism”, and maybe the lack of birth control further down South?

The two most populous nations in the East cannot be more different – one is a chinese communist republic; the other the world’s largest democracy. One is soaring exponentially in terms of GDP (at current prices); as well as per capita, the other is struggling to crawl its way out of poverty. Yet both the Dragon and the nation renouned for the Taj Mahal are almost always compared side-by-side, perhaps due to the fact that they are the two largest emerging market nations with a burgeoning middle class whose demand can only be on the rise. Representing so much demand capacity in the Orient, these two seem like an answer to the current crisis, attracting vast amounts of capital flows as the balance of financial and economic power shifts slowly but increasingly surely to the East.

With 2008 FDI inflows to China of almost US$110 billion, and India at US$41 billion, the capital pouring in is flooding the markets, pushing asset prices up up up. China’s latest Feb 2010 inflation figure at 2.7% (almost double that of the month before) might up fears of market bubble, and worries of rate hikes are very present. But for a country as dependent on exports as China, would the PBoC push its luck and try to reign in inflation at the risk of hurting growth? What about India then? The Chinese engine success story has opened up the India market to international capital that was previously averse to flowing South of Asia, and amidst the rubble of poverty and slums, there is a rising class of workers, educated and fighters of survival, that may show us India in a different light some 20-30 years from now.

Data sources: IMF, Unctad.

A continuacion… El libro de las fotos

3 more days to the dawn of yet another new year, and as I stare at the mirror of 2009, I see the reflection of the previous 12 months, the memories, the experiences and the elements that created another great year, and I wonder – what other exciting, beautiful experiences will come next?

It seems like this year I had the traveler’s itch satisfied, but it also makes me yearn for more. This year was segmented into chapters, each bookmarked by stunning, unique experiences in places unfamiliar and accompanied by people who imprinted their individual DNAs in my life. The last time I scribbled about the picture book, it was based on the backdrop of 2007, a continental story; this year it was mainly staged in Asia and party South America.

I am always most inspired and triggered to write and feel in countries that are not my own, no surprise for those who are intrepid travelers. It is being in another foreign land, seeing unfamiliar faces and hearing the buzz of strange tongues spoken as you frantically try to decipher the meaning of those unrecognizable words, which makes my heartbeat accelerate. Surprisingly, it is when I am most unsure of the situation that I am in that I become more certain about myself, my views and what matters. Experience has always held a high value in my heart, and what stands out in my review of the year almost ended are those thoughts and emotions that I experienced and that changed my focus, widened my narrow viewpoint and opened my heart.

Being in Asia with Juan, I put on the tourist hat and saw things common to me my whole life as a visitor would. Food tasted different, spices fired up and burned my tongue like never before, and everything took on a different light. It was as if so many things which faded into the wall paper previously started to stand out, highlighted in random places, and my greedy eyes absorbed them, like I was new in the land. I realized how different cultures all over the world could be, and how being exposed only to hose we are familiar with produces an ignorance that narrows our spectrum of sight. I learnt that while we were all human beings, people, being nurtured differently and leading such different lives provides an intriguing interest but also creates the need to accept and understand.

Returning to Argentina, in the South American continent, my aforementioned belief simply got strengthened. I delighted in the Latin culture, where affection was openly shown, where people lived passionately, unafraid, full of emotions and strength. I reveled in open-arm embraces, which where I live are few and rare like precious metals, and drew me towards such a life of expression and openness. I soaked up the sunshine of hugs, kisses, greetings and genuine interest which lit up my soul and pushed the cloudy curtains away. I learned to laugh ear to ear, hug like I meant it, and smile and cry without being embarrassed. It was as if being on the opposite end of the world released a different side of me, and I was just getting to know her better.

Coming back to Asia, I arrived in Shanghai, China, the subject of so many news reports and the factory of the world. Peddlers selling fake goods and offering illicit services on Nanjing Road; night skies heavy with smog from its 24-hour factories, and smiles from strangers whose genuineness was impossible to decipher – these make up my memories of hte Pearl of the Orient. It was a mad rush of blue collar workers, smartly dressed executives, destitute street beggars and cunning salesmen rushing from place to place, stopping only if a quick buck could be made. It seemed they never stopped, fuelled by an enthusiasm sparked off by a destiny of poverty, greed, fear, and uncertainty. They seemed to be scrambling mindlessly after the bandwagon, the carrot of a quick rise to wealth dangling attractively, luring the large masses of rural villagers to the cities of China in search of a better life gleaming like a promised key to freedom from forced destiny. It was extremely difficult to let my guard down, and despite belonging to the same race, despite tracing my roots back to China, it was impossible to identify with or admire a culture so hooked on materialism and rockets to prosperity. It seemed everything had a price tag, a value – a reason had to exist for something to be done. Of course, I cannot say I saw every aspect of the Dragon in the East. In fact, I believe and hop that what I saw and experienced does not accurately capture the essence of the land so big its tremors shake the rest of the world. I want to be proved wrong, to be proud of the people who built the Great Wall, who invented the printing press, whose legends are so beautifully imprinted on the palace walls. I want to understand and love my roots, aware of their beginnings and how they spanned out, not wary like I am now.

My next adventure – probably the chapter to be highlighted, started in India, where I found myself excited, exhilarated, awaked and jolted in all furiousness. The country China is most compared to, India was like finding out I was Alice in Wonderland, where each turn made me stumble into a separate discovery, startled yet curious, shocked yet intrigued. I experienced a wide spectrum of emotions – times where the plight and poverty of the people made me choke back on tears, where I was stunned into silence and when I laughed so hard and smiled so much because of their friendly nature. India’s majestic palaces and white-washed marble architecture impressed me no end, while the poor living conditions of its people have become accustomed to slap me hard in the face, making me ashamed of taking things for granted. I saw the state those below the poverty line were in, the lack of dignity that drove them to stare at you, demanding you give them something just because they danced in front of you while you watched unwillingly, the frail thin frames that were mothers whose children sucked at dry sagging breasts, the absence of hygiene which manifested all around as men, children and women walked barefoot on roads which were literally pot-holed tar littered with feces and junk. I wrote the most in the three weeks that I was there – it seemed a well of inspiration was suddenly unlocked, pouring all over my writing canvas. That was when I realized that I needed experiences so different from my own, from what I was used to, from what I could imagine. That was the key to unlocking my potential, which allowed the ink to flow.

I later returned to South America towards the end of the year, and still delighted in soaking up its big open culture. Decorum and traditions were plenty, and the culture is steeped in them. But it was beautiful; it was lovely, and just so different. I witnessed first hand family love, boldness, courage and strength, and with those I love so much, I spent close to three wonderful weeks, creating and recreating some of many more memories to come.

Now the year is ending and I will start off the next in Hong Kong – where Cantonese flourishes and its people are a special kind of Chinese. The special administrative region of China, which had been held under British rule and later returned to its motherland – this is where the old meets the new, the east and west merge in a woven quilt of well-meshed traditions, and where you may be alone, but never lonely. In a place where food bonds its people and space is a rare commodity, where Asia’s financial hub and fashion core combine, I will kick start the new year with treasured family and friends. I can’t quite wait.

Happy New Year! I hope yours will be as spectacular and as brilliant as it can be!

Chennai – Old yet new

Sifting through my old emails, I found one forwarded by my ex-boss just before my maiden journey to Chennai, once called Madras and where British Influence in South Asia made its baby steps.

This is written by a lady from Chennai, who loves it for what it was, is and is becoming. Reading it now, it strikes a chord; India has changed my idea of so many things.
_______________________________________________________
Subject: The New Chennai by Shoba Narayan

The new, edgier Chennai hasn’t lost its past
Chennai is now edgier, sexier, grittier but tradition
has not given away completely in this traverse of time

By Shoba Narayan, Mint, July 24, 2009

What can I tell you about my beloved Chennai? People from other metros
will argue that Chennai has little to recommend it. They complain
about the heat and the orthodoxy. They complain about the nightlife or
lack thereof. They complain about wily, rude autorickshaw drivers who
fleece unsuspecting tourists. Yes, I know.

But what can I tell you in defence? Abnormal as it seems, I am
happiest in Chennai. This irrational love that most of us have for one
place has mostly to do with childhood. I know several people—my
husband included—who have no ties to any one city, having grown up in
several.

My friend, Arun, for instance, who now lives in Berlin, can
objectively take Indian cities apart, sifting them into pros and cons
that say everything but mean nothing. Mumbai for enterprise, Delhi for
power, Kolkata for Bongs who aspire only to get out of Kolkata,
Bangalore for the weather and entrepreneurship and Chennai for its
culture.

All true, but it does little to capture the essence of this coastal
city that welcomed St Thomas and does the jalsa (illicit
gratification, for example, liquor) and jilpa (gratuitous holding
forth on topics that one knows nothing about), as blogger Krish Ashok
says.

Chennai is waking up at 4am to have lunch at 7. It is going to tiny
Murphy Electronics in Adyar and having the proprietor dig out from the
dark recesses every gadget and20gizmo that you never thought to have.
It is drinking “Kumbakonam degree coffee” at, well, Kumbakonam Degree
Coffee in Anna Nagar. It is eating chop suey and hakka noodles at
Waldorf with the IIT guy you have a crush on.

It is watching grizzled old men cover themselves in monkey caps when
the temperature drops from unbelievable to bearable. It is watching
pretty maidens with turmeric yellow faces and dripping wet hair walk
to the temples in the month that is called Margazhi in Tamil. It is
describing yourself as a “thayir saadam” (curd rice) or a “Mylapore
girl” and knowing instantly what it means; about every nuance of that
person. It is knowing that music connoisseurs go to Mylapore Fine Arts
or the TriplicaneAcademy during the December season, while the people
who want to see and be seen go to the Music Academy.

Chennai is Grand Sweets, Ambika Appalam and Saravana Bhavan. It is the
pleasure of speaking in Tamil using a shorthand that only other
Chennai-ites will understand and relish: swear words such as savu
gracki, or the disdainful “veetila sollittu vandirukaya?”, which is
what an auto driver will yell when you cut him off, causing him to
nearly bang into you. Your fault, lady. Have you told people at home
(that you are going to die)? That’s what it means but like most
translations, this does little to capture the pithy essence of that
insult.

Change comes slowly to Chennai. Go there today, and you will still see
the vendors on the beach selling “thenga, manga, pattani, sundal” or
coconut, mango, and a variety of fried lentils. Couples still sit in
the moonlight at Elliot’s Beach, looking around furtively for known
faces. Mamis (matrons) still duck into Nalli’s or G.R. Thanga Maligai
(GRT) for silk saris and gold, respectively, and haggle hard for the
“compliment” or a Rs5 purse that is given free after they spend a few
lakhs. The free purse seems to give them more pleasure than their
purchases.

Chennai is going to Pondy Bazaar and finding everything except your
mother and father. It is parties where people still quote the “Manjal
Araithayaa” speech from the Tamil movie Veera Pandiya Katta Bhomman
after sufficient quantities of liquor have been quaffed. It is eating
spongy idlis at Murugan Idli Shop and wondering if ordering every type
of dosa on the menu is gluttony or good taste. It is the scent of
jasmine at sunset.

Chennai is steeped in Tamil culture. “No ifs, ands and buts about it”,
as a Madrasi would say, and no, please don’t use that word to describe
anyone south of the Vindhyas. M.S. Subbulakshmi epitomized what, for
many women, is Tamil culture. She was deferential to her husband who
managed all her affairs; almost childlike in her simplicity; had
regular oil baths and then scented her hair with sambrani (a type of
incense for sweet-smelling hair); circled the tulsi plant for the
well-being of her family; and inspired thoughts of the divine.

Today’s Chennai is edgier, sexier, grittier. Radio announcers (many of
them female) regale listeners with a snappy Tamil that is equal parts
slang and slander. Girls in Chennai no longer wear salwar kameez like
I used to. They ride motorbikes in tight jeans and halter tops. Few
oil their hair but many still wear the bindi. They prefer lattes to
filter coffee and pizzas to pongal. And you know what? That’s fine.
Because Chennai hasn’t lost its essence.

The same babe who speaks in Tanglish (Tamil-English) will go home and
address her grandmother as “Paati”. The same boy who sports spiky hair
and sunglasses will submit to a Ganga Snanam with loads of hot sesame
oil come Deepavali day.

Chennai—my Chennai, the city that I love—still exists. You just need
to know where to find it. Come with me. I’ll show you.

When in Chennai, Shoba Narayan dines at Karpagambal Mess in Mylapore
and Beyond Indus at the Taj Mount Road.

Letter from a Shared Services Centre

The FSSC used to seem to be a generic mailbox with the teams they supported the only forms of distinction. Although there were many people supporting the finance function, it felt more like we were dealing with a faceless crowd, who got in to work at a different time schedule from us, who was just a phone call away but with whom emails were the preferred mode of communication, and who were an extended part of the team that we never really felt any connection to.

I had imagined them (an unknown number) of colleagues working furiously away at their excel spreadsheets, opening, closing and editing those cellular sheets by pure expert navigation of the keyboard, without ever needing to lift their hands to use the mouse. I had envisioned an overworked, tired crowd filled with endless demands of reports to be churned out and delivered, all working desperately to meet seemingly impossible-to-achieve end-of-day targets. To speak the truth, I had not known what to expect to see at the FSSC, nor if it was going to be a massive report-generating factory that resembled a telemarketing company as shown in Slumdog Millionaire.

On the first day we stepped into the Chennai campus headquarters at Haddows Road, we headed straight to Asia building, 4th floor, and what lay before us astonished me. At least 400 people were seated in the massive office space, and since the dividing wall between FSSC and HRSSC had been recently removed, the space was magnified and almost doubled. It felt like I had entered a library of students busy at work, but instead of the monotonous strained looking faces I had expected, there was chatter and a buzz in the air that I had not previously associated with the FSSC. The huge expanse had an orderliness about it; departments were marked out by desk partitions and pillars showing off clocks representing time across the bank’s footprint. One of the first signs that greeted you was the poster showing the fire escape route, and every few meters you can see arrows hanging from the ceilings to point to designated fire wardens in case of an emergency. The thing which particularly caught my attention was the large electronic notice board in the middle of the floor, which screamed out in bright neon colors “HAPPY BIRTHDAY XXX FROM TEAM YYY”. I was amazed at the effort taken to highlight the employees’ birthdays and remember thinking to myself that maybe even with a few hundred employees on one floor perhaps it is not so impersonal after all.

In the next three weeks that passed, the 2008 finance IGs spent most of our time in the meeting room near the pantry where we sat listening to the management of FSSC go through a wide range of topics. We were brought through the reasoning for business processes outsourcing, the business proposition and shared-service centre model of FSSC, its history and evolution up the value chain, the different teams which form the FSSC and their operational BAU and also the difficulties which the FSSC top team faced in managing a shared services centre. We spent many sessions with the team heads as they presented the teams’ roles in supporting the Finance function, and even worked on a few sample packs to get a flavor of what their Service Level Agreements (SLAs) encompassed. During the third week that we were there, our coordinator KK arranged for us to have “first-hand” days with the teams relevant to our roles and interest.

Interacting with the management team at a more personal level, we were made more aware of some of the reasons for miscommunication between the FSSC and the teams they support, the “one-step-removed” feeling often felt by staff in shared service centers, and the various initiatives being launched to negate these hindrances to a successful working and supportive relationship between FSSC and its stakeholders, and how important it was to engage their staff to create an environment where the staff would want to stay. We were told that with Barclays, Shell and other competitors setting up shop in Chennai recently, the FSSC now had to be more competitive and change their strategy in retaining their valuable employees. With the aim to keep attrition low and Q12 scores high, it is not an easy task for the FSSC management to plan and carry out activities to generate goodwill among the staff and keep them connected and engaged. Aside from that, we were also reminded over and over again of the large risk-mitigating framework that is in place in case of any contingencies, which was rather impressive as I had never known so much preparation and pre-emption was involved behind. We also realized that there is an official voice of customer “C-First” platform through which we could give our feedback on the FSSC directly to its top team.

During our stay there we encountered varying levels of stomach upsets during the initial stages of adapting to the food and countless spices. We also went out and interacted with the FSSC staff and learnt more about their culture, and their warm and sincere hospitality was touching as much as it was surprising. I took away from Chennai a lot more than I had expected, and I think trips like this honestly make a significant difference to the teams we work with. In three short weeks, the FSSC has ceased to be just a 4-letter mailbox title to me, but is now a place where close to 700 staff operating out of Chennai work to meet and partner the Finance function in various changing projects and deadlines through a global array of time differences, and it will remain a part of the bank which will continually grow as the bank evolves.

India’s tragic love story

India is full of beautiful palaces, monuments and buildings that spring up unexpectedly in an old town, next to a a dirty river, in the valleys.

In a history of the rise and fall of empires spanning across centuries, where the mughal rule expanded into India from central asia, the birth of one of the wonders of the world brought India into the limelight, putting it on the same stage as China, Peru, Brazil, Egypt, Jordan, Rome and Mexico. In a sad but romantic history of the dynasty of the six mughal emperors, a tale of love and the struggle for power produced a grand, beautiful tomb acclaimed by the whole world, a majestic construction built on the foundation of promise and loyalty.

The fifth mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, had many wives, but the third wife possessed most, if not all, of his affection. In a short marriage life of just 19 years, Mumtaz Mahal (whose title signified chosen one of the palace) bore him 14 children, the last of whom caused her to die in childbirth. Of these 14 children, 8 died, and of the remaining 6, there were 2 girls and 4 boys. Out of the 4 males, the last and youngest of them all eventually caused his father the greatest harm and injustice, and he became the sixth ruler of the mughal dynasty, ending the reign which lasted almost two hundred years.

Beyond the line of six descendants which she left behind, Mumtaz’s death brought down her husband, Shah Jahan who retreated into a year of mourning and shed all royal clothing to be dressed in mourning clothes. A year after her demise, he embarked on a massively planned project to build her a monument, as he had promised on her deathbed, and in the next 22 years, oversaw and specified the details of the white marbled tomb renouned among all the world. With marble inlay decorating the white pure marble, and phrases from the Koran inscribed as borders on the magnificent structure in Agra, the outcome of the project was awe-inspiring and breathtaking. Even till today, the Taj Mahal’s mist shrouded outline leaves you amazed, and from a distance, it looks like a dream turning into reality.

A very faithful Muslim, Shah Jahan’s devotion to Islam has been blended and crafted seamlessly into the monument, and the dome-topped wonder silences everyone who lays their eyes on it, even if they are not Muslims. The entrace of the Taj opens to a perfectly symmetrical garden, which is partitioned into four equal squares by water streams and fountains, like the garden of Eden as described in the Koran. The peace and serenity emanating from the surroundings of the Taj settles upon you as you walk closer to the structure, each step showing you yet another beautiful angle, whose symmetry and glazed perfection stops you in your tracks, and you unconsciously reach for your camera in an unsuccessful effort to capture the aura and presence of the Taj. One of the most photographed objects in the world, nothing can beat seeing the Taj in person. The story behind and around which the Taj has been wrapped is beyond the physical presence, it is the spirit of the emperor and his wife which spills forth romance and inspires its viewers.

Out of greed and desire to rule over his own family, Shah Jahan’s youngest son with Mumtaz killed his three elder brothers, then imprisoned his father under house arrest in the Agra fort, where he gazed at the Taj for the eight years during his arrest. So much tragedy, so much pain, yet so much love.

Just like many parts of India, and its endlessly fascinating aspects, the Taj is symbolic of India, of its history and its beauty. And unexpectedly, I seem to have fallen in love with some parts of the vast and rich heritage of this nation.

The heart of poverty

Standing in the busy street, walking by the cars bustling beside you, sitting in the comfort of the hotel-chauffered car, or squeezing among three others in a rick, one thing that hits you as you travel about India is the immense poverty in which so many Indians are trapped, and other than which they know nothing else.

Everywhere you go, you see men, women and children running, walking, strolling about without shoes or slippers, their feet bare on the soil and its elements. Just watching the people of India going about their daily lives, you immediately grasp the extent of how destitute and impoverished they are. In the cities where the nation’s increasing prosperity has flowed to some, many others are still left behind in the dirt of deficiency and lack, being trampled upon by the crowd of those who have found quick wealth. The income disparity and large gap is blindingly obvious, with flashy cars complete with white-uniformed drivers just inches away from the physically disabled beggar, whose hands quiver from days’ worth of hunger.

Driving past poor neighbourhoods in the suburbs to reach the grand gates of our five star hotel, I cringe when I see young children walking alone in the dark alleys, to huts made out of stone and dried leaves for the roofs. The bumpy rides show how badly maintained the roads are, and as you turn corners and are presented with a sight of a cow and a goat sharing their dinner at the neighbourhood trash corner, the odour of decaying rubbish and scraps of leftovers makes your stomach churn and waves of nausea wash relentlessly over you. What makes it worse is when you see and old bearded man, skinning as a beanpole, walk towards them to try his luck at the same pile of trash. It makes you turn away, from pity and also guilt, for wasting half of the chicken bryani ordered at the hotel cafe, and for making a face at the fish and chips that wasn’t as tasty as you would have liked.

At the tourist sites, homeless beggars lurk in anticipation of the donations of pity tourists often give, and it has become their occupation and expertise to stretch out their hands in a bid to get their daily allowance. Women hang their hand-made bead necklaces on both arms, and follow you non-stop asking, almost pleading with you to buy their wares. They see you are not interested and they keep dropping their prices, desperation overwhelming their greed to make a quick buck from foreignors. Babies in their arms, these women as wafer-thin from the lack of proper nourishment, and their hungry young children suck at their breasts, dried from the lack of milk. They walk around, sweat glistening on their foreheads, one child in front and one at the side, eyes wide from the draining heat yet alert to the sounds and sights of foreignors.

In the cities, where the markets are still bright and much alive at ten o’clock at night, the narrow streets see cars, motorbikes and bicycles jammed next to each other. You have to weave your way through rows or parked motorbikes to cross from the streets to the pavements, which are then blocked by all the items for sale and the unending stream of pedestrians and saturday night shoppers. Children skip up the stairs to the bright and colourfully-lit shops, as the orchestra of honks and chatter make a rhythm which gives the cities their heartbeat. The word “foreignor” is labelled all over your face as you walk, flinching when a sweaty arm brushes against you, the owner never once realizing and never once turning around to apologize. This is the way things work, you don’t have much time to be worried and particular about personal space — most people here do not understand that concept. Finally, when inside an acessory shop, you feel relieved from the rush outside, but then the heat and unventilated air gushes at you, and discomfort leads the beads of perspiration that start to form. Amazed at the thousands of selections of bangles and earrings and bindis and necklaces there are to choose from, I am always at a loss, and take an extremely long amount of time to appreciate and then finally come to a decision of which to buy. I love the colours and vibrancy, but at the same time, I am also struck by the shop attendants, just young children who have to work to sell the items, whether because it is a family-run business, or because they have the work from the young age of eight. They flock anxiously to you as you enter the shop, asking what you would life. My initial irritation at having an attendant hovering relentlessly at my side slowly grows into admiration of their persistance and constant smiles and politeness. I am also always full of respect for them, for they embrace what they have without complaints, unlike us who live in large clean cities and have made complaining an elevated form of art.

Yet what really makes me feel for Indians is their kind and helpful souls, their willingness to help you push your bus when the engine doesn’t start, and their beautiful smiles when you thank them, realizing that they did it without asking for money, even if they were poor and sitting at the roadside hoping someone would stop by to buy the clothes they had hung up for sale.

India makes you want to go home, to be in the comfort of the hotel, to have the soft bed to sleep on and clean potable water running from the tap. India creates a longing to return and show your fellow countrymen what they are taking for granted, and to shake them up and tell them what so many here in this nation of over a billion do not even know they lack. India makes me ashamed of complaining, of splashing money away like water when young children work so hard just to kill their hunger. India makes me see its people in a different light, makes me appreciate and be thankful for what I do not have to go through, and makes me a little more emphathatic, and for that I am grateful.

An Indian Intensity

There is an intensity about India that I cannot quite describe.

It hits you the moment you arrive at the airport, a thick dense smell hovering in the air you breathe, in the soot puffing out of the vehicles and the sea of dark shiny faces squashed closed together eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones.

It has the power to momentarily stun you especially if you’re coming from a neat, organized society like Singapore, whether the buses and trains run mostly on time, where the air is fresh and clean and the streets are not just black tar covered in piles of trash. In India, roads belong to motorists and pedestrians alike, both taking unyielding claim on the public land, both declaring their possession with a undebiable mix of unconcern and right. Old men walk barefoot on land filthy with spit, faeces, rubbish overspilling from a dump, the smell rotting in your nose. A natural reflex is for me to wrinkle my nose and make a face at the horrifying indifference with which India’s people accept it as a norm in life. Well, it has become and always will be a norm in their lives, and while they wear suits and ties in the clean offices of the multi-national companies, the people blend so well together once on the streets, not standing out from the rest of the bustling of night markets of Pondy Bazaar, and Spencer’s Plaza.

Business men walk right next to beggars who look at you, hands outstretched for a coin or two. Crazy old men walk right in the middle of the street, weaving their way among the cars as they rant to themselves, lost in a world to which only they have access to. As you walk inches close to the ricks (or tuk-tuks like they call them in Thailand), its not hard to feel so much like an outsider, because everything seems so different and hard to accept. Restaurants have people walking barefoot in and out, old people sit and even lie stretched out on the pavements streaked with dirt, and eat with their blackened fingers, yet they have a peaceful look as they view their environment, contemplating their thoughts. It’s hard for me to imagine the lives they live, or more rightly put, I imagine them living boring mundane lives, each day living for the next, but what puzzles me is how they accept the fate they were born in. But I have to constantly remind myself that they can accept what they have because they never had the chance to choose something better. Then when I think that, I feel bad, for their lack of choice, which might also allow them to live contented lives, and I also feel a huge sense of relief that I was born in society where things work, where healthcare is easily though not cheaply available, and where education has lifted so many out of poverty and a fate of impoverishment.

The moment you step out of the cool air-conditioned shelter of the hotel, there is a humid, hot stickiness that envelopes you in the summer heat. The first time you walk into a bakery selling indian sweet delights, the overpowering smell of gee, flour and unventilated air makes you nauseous. If you have never been exposed to Indian cuisine before, the concoction of spices, oil, butter and curries may give you a stomach upset that is quite memorable, for more appropriately, you cannot quite forget. Indians are also famous for their punctuality (or lack there of) and their promises to deliver which usually are followed through only after a few times of prodding. 2 minutes of wait time actually translates into half an hour, and a half hour really means an hour. It gets frustrating when time is of the essence, but in other circumstances, I would say I am quite amused.

Yet while I gripe about many aspects because I have not gotten used to India, I must say there are certain things that impress me alot. The high standard of English here is impressive. Probably the only country where I can get everything done and settled without referring to a translator or having to learn the national language. I honestly am very impressed. Indians are also one of the friendliest peoples that I know. They are always polite, always ready to help (although help may take a while to come) and they always check with you if everything is alright. The indian hospitality is a big factor in my impression of India, and the calendar in my room has captured an Indian chef cooking with a huge grin on his face, and that is precisely the imprint in my mind, a mascot for his fellow countrymen. India is also rich in culture, history and spirituality, with altars everywhere possible, and temples a large feature of its landscape. Every picture you can find about India leaves its shadow in your memory, because nothing about India is forgettable.

India’s intensity is beyond words, its essence barely able to be captured in pictures. You have to be here to understand it, to experience their culture, to soak in the life that is displayed all around. India is a land of great inspiration, a great evoker of thoughts and wonderment. You need to see the beggar on the street eating from the trash while a white-collar office worker walks on by, totally oblivious to the dire state of health the beggar is in, in order to appreciate what you have. You need to see the women walking and performing everyday tasks in their beautifully woven traditional saris, with their bindis proudly on their foreheads, to feel a need to go back to understand tradition and the great longing people have attached to it. It is the land where over a billion form the world’s largest democracy, where Mahatma Gandhi united his people against foreignors and inspired hundreds of millions in his advocating of support of locally-produced goods. It is also where the planet’s cheapest car can be bought, and where the Bollywood industry was birthed and continues to flourish.

India fascinates anyone, everyone who is willing to open their eyes and see the world. It certainly has opened mine.