We Need To Talk

The Week’s Prompt:

{A’s} profession is a hazardous one—aviator, automobile racing driver, steeple jack, “human fly”—and {B} considers this fact an obstacle to their marriage.

“Dear?”

“Hmmm?”

“We need to talk.”

“Hmmm...”

“Will you put that paper down and look at me?”

“Yes, dear.”

“It’s about your latest project.”

“What about it?”

“It upsets me.”

“Upsets you? What about it upsets you?”

“Well, the fact that you climb buildings.”

“Sweetheart, I’m ‘The Human Fly’; it’s what I do. Besides, being a human fly is a great honor. My father and grandfather were both human flies. I am proud to be able to continue that family tradition.”

“No, I understand that. It’s just ... do you have to do it without any safety harnesses?”

“If I wore safety harnesses, then I would be just a regular steeplejack.”

“Yes, about the steeplejack thing ...”

 “What about it?”

“Why do you do it?”

“You know why I did it. It was my training to become ‘The Human Fly’.”

“But now that you are ‘The Human Fly’, can’t you give up being a steeplejack?”

“And do what exactly for a living?”

“You had a job before all of this, when I first met you.”

“What, go back to being a mechanic at that dirty garage? I’m no longer that same man, woman. And besides, how do you think it’d look in the papers - “Human Fly a greasy mechanic!” No, it just won’t do.”

“Ok, maybe not a mechanic, but you learnt so much about cars there. Couldn’t you put all that knowledge to good use? Maybe become a driver or something?”

“A driver?”

“Yes, like a cabbie, or you could work for one of the rich businessmen.”

“A driver. You know, you might be onto something there.”

“I might?”

“Yes. Oh, you are beautiful, and your mind is beautiful. I’m heading to the track right this instant.”

“The track?”

“The race track. I’m going to become a racing driver.”

“What? No, I was talking about ...”

“Imagine the headline, “Human Fly a daring automobile racing driver!” Terrific!”

“You know, while you’re at it, why don’t you fly a plane as well?”

“Brilliant! You just don’t stop, do you? I’m so glad I married you. And my mother thought I was making a mistake. “Human Fly a daring automobile driver and a daring stunt aviator!” The press will go crazy for me.”

“I'm pregnant.”

“He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease/ That daring young man on the flying trapeze/ He’d fly through the air ...”

"Please to Excuse, Sir. Thank You."

The only way I realised we were in Konark was when I looked through the windshield and saw the dome of the Sun Temple towering over the tops of trees. The ‘town’ of Konark itself is in a pathetic state. The Government is absent, save for a sprawling Yatri Nivas; the entire game has been left in the hands of private players. There are no State Buses, the roads are poor and there are no signs to inform the beleaguered tourist. The ‘bus stand’ is open ground on either side of the lane – again, with no structure or signboard. Matchbox buses kick up dust that swirls into your eyes and mouth on the wind. The conductor had to tell me to alight as this was the stop for Konark; I had to ask shopkeepers hiding from the sun under yellow and blue tarpaulin sheets where the Sun Temple was. If you didn’t know better, there’s a pretty good chance you’d drive right past Konark and the Sun Temple.

My Government-issued guide at the Sun Temple, Jarameshwar Panda, has been doing his job since 1960. He’s done this gig so long that he’s got every move, every compliment, every photo angle and pose all figured out and practiced to perfection. I let Panda work his charm; heck, that’s why I’m here in the first place. He appropriates my camera and interjects his narration with a “Please to excuse, Sir; stand there” *Click*, “Please to excuse, Sir; point at that” *Click*, “Look at that” *Click*.

Panda’s English is poor and his Hindi is incomprehensible; overall, his muffled speech is hard to follow, but it’s obvious he’s making quite an effort to provide an informative, memorable trip. His favourite phrase, apart from “Please to excuse, Sir” is “Thank you”.

“Please to excuse, Sir; hold your hand out like this. Thank you.” *Click*

As Panda led me around the temple area, he stopped and pointed at certain sculptures.

“Please to excuse, Sir,” he said. “Ladies all around the country wear dupattas. That is a modern thing. Do you agree? Thank you. Now, please look at this sculpture and tell me what you see she is wearing. Is it a dupatta?”

I agreed that it could be so.

“Thank you,” he said with a slight nod. “This temple was built in the thirteenth century but you can see twenty-first century things were being used even back then.”

He repeated this process at other sculptures, indicating a skirt, a backpack, a handbag and high heels (which I thought looked more like platforms from the Disco Age). The intricate carvings on the temple walls are erotic enough to make one blush.

The Konark Sun Temple is most famous for its chariot wheels. There are twelve wheels, one for each month of the year. Carvings on the wheel spokes are specific to its month. So, for example, the month of July carries a carving depicting the monsoon. Only one of the wheels is intact – others have a spoke missing or the axle broken off or chunks chipped off – and Panda leads me there.

“Please to excuse, Sir,” he said, “but you can read the time using this wheel. The bottom half of the wheel can show twelve hours. Between each spoke shows three hours and there are sixty dots; so, each dot is three minutes.”

He placed his finger on the wheel axle jutting out from the wall and our eyes followed his finger’s shadow. He muttered some calculations and looked up at me.

“It will be just before twelve o’clock,” he said, “some ten minutes.”

It was ten to twelve on the dot.

“Thank you.”

I paid Jarameshwar Panda, said "Thank You" for his services, and headed for lunch to the Government-run Yatri Nivas down the road where the food’s only redeeming quality was that it filled my stomach. I then headed to Konark’s ‘general bus stand area’ and waited fifteen minutes in the shade of a shop for a matchbox bus to Puri.

Written for the Expedia contest on IndiBlogger. Visit Expedia at http://www.expedia.co.in/.

Dark Secrets of the Tantric Goddess

Puri is a very trippy sort of town located in Orissa on the Eastern shoreline of India. It was on the original hippie trail that extended across Asia, and remains extremely popular with foreign backpackers  today. Although its population is around 150,000 people, the numbers swell especially around the annual Rath Yatra (Car Festival) held in July. The Rath Yatra is a religious procession where the idols of Lord Jagannath are slowly paraded up a street in an expensively-decked out chariot; it is the only opportunity non-Hindus have of setting eyes on the idols since the temple itself is off-limits to them. The balconies and apartments lining the street are booked out well in advance for Rath Yatra sighting parties.

For dinner a couple of evenings before the famed Rath Yatra, I went to ‘Honey Bee’s Bakery & Pizzeria’, where I ate an expensive, but poorly-prepared, lasagne. However, I was given my money’s worth – paisa vasool – with the conversation at the only other occupied table in that five-table restaurant.

A bald, white man, wearing a kurta, was sitting alone and reading. Another white man, also bald and known to the first, entered the restaurant and joined him at the table.

“Dark Secrets of the Tantric Goddess!” the newcomer exclaimed and wiggled his fingers, when he saw the other’s book. “You know I want to get my hands on that.”

He sat down and the two of them began a spirited discussion about why the religion was called Hinduism, which was the best place to see the Rath Yatra from, and how the Vedas fared when compared to the Upanishads.

“I used to be a heavy practitioner,” drawled the newcomer while refusing the salad his companion had offered him, “but then, I was faced with the question, ‘What do I want to do?’ I could either become a monk or an academician. Then, I got into a really good graduate school, and found that I really enjoyed the academic part of it.”

He went on to talk about his role as a teacher of Hindu scriptures and Hinduism in a foreign university. As I listened, I thought to myself how Americans (for his accent betrayed him to be one) pursue a subject relentlessly, seeking knowledge and understanding. It is a quality I – and a lot of Indians – would do well to appropriate, rather than getting stuck in archaic belief systems which may or may not be true for my situation.

“But then,” the teacher concluded, “if I find my true Guru, all this goes out the window.”

“I have nearly come to blows with ISKCON devotees,” he said at another time. “They were, like, “Jagannath! Oh yeah! He’s a reincarnation of Krishna.” I said, “You take that back right now.” Then, I calmed down, went home and called an Indian friend of mine and said, “You know, they’re saying Jagannath is a reincarnation of Krishna.” For a few minutes, there was a lot of cursing and fighting on the other side of the phone.”

“So, who is Jagannath an incarnation of?” asked his companion.

“Jagannath,” the teacher said in all seriousness, “is most likely an incarnation of Vishnu.”

A little while later, the teacher rose.

“Excuse me,” he said to his salad-eating companion. “It’s beer o’clock; time for me to go get a ‘big boy drink’. I’ll see you at the Rath Yatra.”

And the bald white man left - that teacher of Hindu scriptures and religious beliefs, that defender of Lord Jagannath’s ancestry, that organiser of Rath Yatra viewing parties, that seeker of his true Guru - lighting up a cigarette on his way out.

Written for the Expedia contest on IndiBlogger. Visit Expedia at http://www.expedia.co.in/.

An Evening On Marine Pde., Puri

Marine Pde. gets really busy in the evenings. The beach, which stretches straight as an arrow to the horizon, is packed with vendors, strollers and swimmers, along with animals like horses and camels. The wind is ferocious, buffeting me and firing prickly pellets of sand against my legs.

The OTDC (Orissa Tourism Development Corporation) counter is on Marine Pde. I had telephoned earlier in the day to enquire about dolphin-sighting boat tours that OTDC conducts on Chilika Lake, about an hour from Puri. An energetic Mr. Madhusudan informed me that due to a bloody rift between two villages in the area – seven people had died thus far in firing – all tours originating from Satpada had been cancelled. However, tours that started about five kilometres away from Satpada were still available. I signed up over the phone.

“I have booked your ticket,” said Mr. Madhusudan. “You come to the counter and ask, “Are you Madhusudan?” I will say “Yes, I am.” Then, you give me the money and I will give you your ticket.”

After I had picked up my ticket, I walked a few paces down the Pde. to Mongini’s, a famous cake shop that had originated in Calcutta some eighty years previously. The shop was small but packed, and the three men behind the counter appeared harried. An elderly Bengali couple were in the middle of their order as I entered.

“So, that is fifteen of this pastry and one 7-Up bottle,” the grey-haired lady said. Her voice was pleasant on the ears and she spoke in a mix of crisp English and accented Hindi. She turned to her husband, a small gentle man.

“Do you think this is enough?” she asked, and they thought aloud about who was expected, and how many people were coming from each family. The salesman behind the counter waited patiently, as did the other customers behind the couple, who decided their order was sufficient. However, when the salesman took out all the pastries and put them in a box, there were only ten. When he communicated this fact to the couple, they were puzzled.

“But, we asked for fifteen,” the lady said.

“Yes, but we have only ten,” the salesman said.

“They have only ten,” she repeated, turning to her husband. Then, she turned back and said, “So, then give us five of these other pastries.”

The salesman took out two of the newly-selected pastries and began to stuff them into the same box.

“Don’t do that,” the lady barked. “You’ll crush them; put these five into another box.”

“But, ma’am, there are only two.”

This pushed the couple into another discussion. Meanwhile, the crowd started to press forward and the salesman began to respond to other customers.

“You finish our order first,” said the agitated lady. “Do you have fruit cake? Give us five pieces of that instead. But show it to us first.”

He did; it was approved and went into the box.

“Is the 7-Up there?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am, I’ve already put it in.”

The lady spied the beverage fridge and called her husband over. Another discussion ensued. They turned back to the counter, but their salesman had gone to bill their purchases and another salesman stood in his place.

“We’d like two bottles of Nimbooz as well,” the lady said.

“You can open the fridge door and take them,” said the new salesman.

“Have you got the 7-Up?” the husband asked.

The new salesman unknowingly said no, he hadn’t. The original salesman-behind-the-counter heard, but before he could say anything, the elderly husband pulled out a bottle of 7-Up and handed it over. The original salesman quietly pushed aside the bottle of 7-Up he had, accepted the bottles from the couple and billed them.

“You heated up the pastries?” cried the lady. “Who heats up pastries? I’m going to talk to the head office in Kolkata! They are going to hear of this!”

With this parting shot, the couple left. Everybody in Mongini's, including the customers, heaved a sigh of relief.

Written for the Expedia contest on IndiBlogger. Visit Expedia at  http://www.expedia.co.in/.

Isn't The National Anthem For All Indians?

I have a huge problem with Times Of India's new marketing initiative centred around the National Anthem. It's nothing but an ego trip. Called "Jaya Hey," it rubbishes what school children sing everyday as being only a fifth of what Rabindranath Tagore originally intended, and proudly unfurls the remaining four stanzas that have now been set to music.

While this is a noble task by itself, what really gets my goat is the way TOI has gone about it. It's a ten-minute video that attempts to sell unabashed patriotism (through visual indicators like pained puppy dog eyes and upturned palms, as if invoking the Almighty), but in a manner that makes TV infomercials look like works of art. This video is an exercise for TOI's clout, nothing more. By pulling in 39 singers and musicians (who, I'm sure, have all worked for free because, really, how can you put money over patriotism?), TOI is essentially telling us, "Look at the connections I have. I am all powerful. Bow before me."

What's troubling, however, is what this video implies.

1. The National Anthem is not an individualistic song; what makes it truly powerful is the collective aspect of it, the fact that whoever you are, wherever you might be, when you hear "Jana Gana Mana," you stand at attention and sing along. Do you sing the National Anthem alone? No, you're usually singing along when it's playing in the theatre or at a flag hoisting or with your classmates in school. And yet, this video shows 39 well-heeled singers and musicians, dressed in their finest silk ethnic wear, performing individually for the most part. Essentially, when each one had some free time, they came into the studio, recorded and filmed, and left.

2. You all know the numbers - 1.2 billion people, 30 states, so many languages and religions and dialects, etc. Do you see any of that represented here? If you do, let me know, because I sure don't. It doesn't appear like TOI bothered to step out of their air-conditioned offices/cars/studios to go out on the streets across the country and let the people of India sing their National Anthem with pride. No, because how on earth are you going to haul all that recording equipment everywhere and still get quality sound while keeping costs low? What's that? Bring the people into the studios? You mean, poor and middle-class people who mean nothing to me or my ratings? Plus, we'll have to pay extra to sanitize the studio after the construction labourers come in with their dirty snotty kids and infect everything with their grubby paws. Instead, let me just call the famous people who can sing or play an instrument and have high hygienic standards.

3. Is this a TOI paean to India or to Rabindranath Tagore? I counted at least five portraits of the man. Oh wait, I forgot, it's a TOI tribute to the 39 well-heeled singers and musicians. India, meanwhile, can be represented through stock photography (which I'm hoping they paid for). More prioritizing of the individual over the collective. "National Anthem," indeed.

4. Rabindranath Tagore did not write "Jana Gana Mana" for it to be the Indian National Anthem. The man passed in 1941, while the National Anthem was adopted by the Government of India in 1950. So, TOI cannot say this is what Tagore originally intended when he wrote the song in 1911. The Government chose a stanza to make the National Anthem in 1950; TOI chooses to make a music video on Tagore's entire song in 2011. This marketing gimmick is NOT the new National Anthem.

A far better example of capturing the Indian essence, of unification of the whole over singling of the individual, is the "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara," a 1988 film about national integration and unity. (The redux, "Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara," released in 2010, was D.O.A.). Sure, it was conceived and delivered by an advertising agency for a government body, but what matters is the final film. It is representative of India, the lay of its land, its people, traditions, customs, languages. It emphasises the collective over the individual and stays true to its refrain of "One tune."

In Search of Peace

The following is a 500-word story I wrote about my travels as part of a Travel Writing Scholarship competition on World Nomads.

In Search of Peace

‘Where can I find Ashoka’s rock inscriptions?’

The photographer glared at me. I was interrupting his business. A couple waited impatiently. Behind them, the white pagoda of the Shanti Stupa loomed.

I was at Dhauli, eight kilometres south of the capital city of Bhubaneswar in Orissa, India. Around 261 BC, Ashoka The Great – the legendary Mauryan Emperor whose vast empire covered present-day India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Afghanistan in their entirety – waged the bloody Kalinga War at this site. Over a quarter of a million people were either killed or deported. Appalled by the bloodshed he had caused – the nearby Daya River is said to have turned red with blood – Ashoka devoted the rest of his life to Buddhism. He propagated his dharma by inscribing his edicts on a rock face.

In 1972, the Japan Buddhist Sangha built a Shanti Stupa (Peace Pagoda) atop the hill overlooking the sprawling farmland countryside, and Dhauli became a tourist destination. People flocked to the Stupa in droves, prostrating before and clicking photographs of the four idols of the Buddha. Stalls sprung up selling film rolls, deep-fried snacks and water bottles. Behind the Stupa stood the reconstructed Shiva temple and Ganesha shrine, where priests yelled at devotees and tourists alike to go here, do this and pay so much. It was a racket and I wanted out, fast.

Asking for ‘the big rock with things written on it’ drew blank shrugs, until a taxi-driver believed it to be at the base of the hill. I walked the few hundred metres, rounding a bend and leaving the ruckus behind. Three cattle egrets fluttered ahead of me, catching the sun on the yellow-orange brushes on their plumage. I came upon a garden where a uniformed caretaker was sweeping dried leaves.

‘Where can I find Ashoka’s rock inscriptions?’ I asked.

He turned and pointed to a grill-protected, glass-fronted building, about ten feet high and fifteen feet wide. An elephant was carved above, into the side of the rock. ‘This is it,’ he said.

I pressed my nose against the glass. Ashoka’s eleven edicts were scrawled into the sloping rock in the ancient Brahmi script of the Pali language. A nearby signboard translated them into English, starting with prohibiting the killing of animals in the royal kitchen, and including gems like ‘officials should be free from anger and hurry’. The sculpted elephant, considered to be the earliest rock-cut sculpture in India, symbolised the birth of the Buddha.

Buses raced past. This featured on no tour operator’s itinerary.

I wandered into the sprawling garden attached to the rock edicts, maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India. The air was hot and still with monsoon humidity. A solitary Myna chirped. The gardeners’ stiff brooms, made from the spines of coconut leaves, scratched at the grass. Their shears clipped rhythmically. Under the shade of a flowering patoli tree, I sat cross-legged and meditated. I searched for peace in the same place Emperor Ashoka had, 2,270 years ago.

The Loss Of Friendship

Since December, I haven't been doing well at friendship. I have burnt many bridges, broken many connections, all of them which I thought were strong and unshakable. It turns out they aren't as infallible as I thought they were. Maybe the seeds for their downfall were sown much earlier. Maybe I'm just a bigger dick than those people deserve.

It started when I ended my relationship in early December. That was the best relationship I had ever been in, yet I felt the need to end it. What made it worse was the manner in which I broke up with her. Given the strength of our bond, we stayed in touch for four more months, swinging back and forth between not talking to getting back together. Finally, in mid-April, she said the same thing to me that nearly ever woman I have dated before has said: "Don't call or write."

In January, I was honest, maybe brutally so, with a woman who I thought was good friends with me. I told her what I thought people might interpret her behaviour as, and I told her I had feelings for her. After months of hanging out with each other and years of knowing each other, she stopped talking to me following that evening. No calling, no writing.

In early April, I got into a bitter fight with a woman friend by defending another friend. I would hang out with this woman friend regularly, but since that incident, there's been no contact. No calling, no writing.

This weekend has been particularly bad. Last night, I lost my temper and put one of my oldest friendships - one that defines the very person I have grown up to be - under the scanner. I fear that we have grown apart so far that we have lost touch of the very fabric that forms the foundation of our erstwhile rock-solid friendship. I fear this guy, who I was once best friends with, has replaced me and I have been rendered inconsequential or, worse, a liability.

Today, I was put in my place for pushing boundaries and crossing limits. I immediately removed myself from not only that fledgling friendship, but all the ones associated with it as well.

This is a scary time for me. I'm petrified at this seeming inability of mine to maintain friendships. I've known for some time that I suck at relationships, that I'm very good in the beginning but I have to work hard beyond the initial period. But to face the possibility that I might not even be able to maintain long-lasting friendships. How useless am I if I have to keep creating new friendships, all doomed like their predecessors, to replace the ones I keep destroying?

As is wont with me, I instantly tried to find an external source to blame. We bought a new car at the end of Nov. That must be it. With two fender-benders already while driving that car, it must be unlucky. Or it must be because I stopped doing my kriya in early Dec. Life was better when I was practising the Sudarshan Kriya.

I'm not sure what to do. Every bone in my body is screaming out for solitude, to limit the extent of potential damage I can create to myself and those I come in contact with. But a person important to me has told me more than once that if I screw something up, I must go out and fix it. Something is very wrong with me, in my head, and I need to fix that before I can fix anything emanating from me.

What is wrong with me? Why am I so terrible with people, especially the very close ones? Why am I so intent on burning the forest I live in?

Why Mahindra Logan Should Be Renamed 'Wolf'

Mahindra and Renault brought in the Logan to India, but their marriage couldn't last. And now, Mahindra - with complete control over the Logan, except its name - have renamed the car 'Verito'. It's almost vertigo-inducing, apart from being one of the most uninspiring, unmemorable names possible for a car.

Logan - Wolverine

The Mahindra Logan should have been renamed the 'Mahindra Wolf''. Here's why.

Logan is a character in X-Men - he becomes Wolverine. There's a pretty good chance that a good chunk of your target audience - under the age of 30 - has watched the films, read the comics graphic novels and knows the Logan-Wolverine connection. It's a connection that allows for a ton of film tie-ins and promotions, as well as other insinuations in marketing messages.

I can see a print ad already - a black background, silver moonlight streaming down from a large full moon, catching a silver/black Mahindra Wolf that's carrying three steel claws on its doors. "The Mahindra Logan has transformed to the Mahindra Wolf. Howl!"

The Wolf allows for the most important aspect of marketing today - the social aspect. Wolves hunt in packs and Mahindra has the bandwidth to create packs of Wolves. Mahindra can connect Wolf owners and create a pack (not a 'club' or a 'group') that can rival Royal Enfield's. No car company in India has been able to do that. Then, they can create some really awesome properties like a 'Wolf Night Drive' and a 'Full Moon Wolf Party'. It also gives a name to their car owners - 'Wolves'. "Are you a Wolf?"

Finally, a name like 'Wolf' allows for a wonderful side-vertical to spring up - accessories. Both the driver and the steed can be dressed up. Jackets, decals, fake fur, a wolf howl horn.

The time has come for the Logan to grow up. Verito does nothing for the car or the brand - it makes it another forgettable transport option. Wolf creates a brand and all its associated perks, and that is what Mahindra needs now. The Mahindra Wolf.

William Wants To Be Known As 'The Duke Formerly Known As Prince'

There aint no Duking between these two former Princes

It was at the first press conference Prince William and his new bride Catherine Middleton held after tying the nuptials that the second in line to the throne made his declaration. The press was clamouring for the couple's attention and kept calling out to the groom by his old moniker 'Prince William', as well as his new one 'The Duke of Cambridge'.

After about five minutes of name-calling, the Prince...err, Duke, slammed his fist on the table with a resounding thud that shut the room up. In a calm, level voice, he proceeded to issue this statement:

"Today is the happiest day of my life. Ever since I first laid eyes on Kate a decade ago, I have waited for this day. For 28 years, I have been known as Prince. Today, we have become the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. However, today, I also want to honour a man who has had a profound impact on my life. I grew up with his voice in my head, with his music in my ears and with his name in my title - Prince. And so, henceforth, I shall be referred to as 'The Duke Formerly Known As Prince'."

One bright reporter, allegedly from The Mail, stood up and asked, "Will you get yourself a Love Symbol too, like Prince did?"

Prince William... I mean, The Duke of Cambridge... I mean, The Duke Formerly Known As Prince (or 'TDFKAP' for short) sat up straight. "By Jove," he exclaimed, "that's a smashing idea. Maybe I could run a national, no, global contest where I pick the winning design for my own Love Symbol. And it could air as part of our family reality show 'Monarchy: The Royal Family At Work'."

He called over a black-suited advisor and began to talk to him in hushed whispers, holding a hand over his mouth. Meanwhile, another reporter, maybe from The Standard, asked Kate, who had been sitting rather stiffly through this exchange, "Would you like to be called 'The Duchess Formerly Known as Kate'?"

The Duchess of Cambridge leaned forward to the mic and said in her sweet voice, "I have been known as Kate for 29 years. I think I'd like to be called 'The Duchess of Cambridge' for a while now, thank you very much."

"How about 'The Duchess'?"

"The Duchess of Cambridge."

When Prince Charles was contacted for comment, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Today's generation, I tell you, totally unpredictable. I wanted to get Rowan Atkinson to conduct the wedding, like he had in that delightful film Four Weddings And A Funeral. I thought it would liven things up a bit. Westminster Abbey can get so stuffy. I should know; I was nearly married there twice. But Billy wanted a very traditional service. And now this!"

The Artist Formerly Known As Prince could not be reached for comment, although rumours suggest that he might change his name now to 'The Duke' to reciprocate Prince William's gesture.

The Perfect Situation Song

I started work last week at a new place. And I had an unbelievable first day. Almost as soon as I entered the lobby, I sliced my finger deep on the edge of my Ray-Ban sunglasses (did you know they have really sharp edges?) that were sitting in my shirt pocket. As I stemmed the flow of blood and was asking the security guard there to give me cotton, Dettol and a Band-Aid, somebody walked through the door from inside the office. It was somebody I hadn't seen in five years, and frankly, the last place I expected to see this person.

It has been a surreal couple of weeks. Working in the same space as this person, though not yet together, is an unusual sensation that I'm still struggling to come to terms with. This morning, as my bus approached my bus stop, a song started up on my iPod. It was a song I had never heard before, because I had downloaded the artist's 'Best Of' album for his biggest hit, and had just transferred the entire album onto my iPod as a way to discover his music.

The lyrics arrested me. They rang so true to my thoughts and emotions, it was stunning. I literally have experienced everything he sings in this song. It's called 'Hello Like Before' and it's by Bill Withers (of 'Ain't No Sunshine' fame). Give it a listen. The lyrics are below.

Hello like before
I'd never come here
If I'd known that you were here
I must admit though
That's it's nice to see you, dear
You look like you've been doing well

Hello like before
I hope we've grown
'Cause we were only children then
For laughs I guess we both can say
'I knew when'
But then again, that's kiss and tell

Hello like before
I guess it's different
'Cause we know each other now
I guess I've always known
We'd meet again somehow
So then it might as well be now

(Last two verses x2)