By the Caspian

Even though the way back is the first left when you get out of the office the traffic dictates you travel a kilometer right, take a U-turn and get on your right way, the way back. Some drivers have other, more complex, ways of making the journey back, but that was the route we were on that day. And it was a good route to travel in the fading lights. Travelling next to the Caspian Sea, looking at the waters to wash away the distances. Distances that are hard to describe, hard to cover, washed by the even harder to describe a distance that the waters are. A feeling of peace transcends when you look at the waters.

The house faced the sea. It was a small two-three room construction, about six feet high from the road level. The front door opened to a small platform and stairs down to the road. The three of them stood there. The eldest, about five-six years in age, stood in the corner of the small platform. The second boy was standing about a yard away from his elder brother. And the little girl, unable to decide whether to join the boys in their play or not, standing half in the middle of the door neither out on the platform nor in the room.

On the other side of the road a new three-four star hotel has come up. Hotel Ramada. It must have blocked the view of sea from the door where the children stood, if not complete definitely partially.

The eldest boy was showing his little brother how far he could pee. Maybe showing off, see how far my peepee goes. Or maybe he was trying to achieve the hard task of peeing across the road on the hotel. Getting back at the hotel for blocking their view he was trying to make the best of the projectile. The younger boy seemed impressed. Taking his lessons, in the art of making a pee-projectile, seriously. Maybe they will work hard and one day successfully pee on the view-blocking-rich-looking-no-good-to-them-hotel-Ramada. Together, both of them. And the little girl, not very sure of what was happening, slightly confused of how the peepee was making a projectile, stood at her distance. Ready to run to the safety of the house, and probably her mother, in case the boys wanted her to join in their play.

The projectile was not that strong. And hotel Ramada was safe for now. And so was the road on which we crossed between the boys and hotel Ramada after taking a right and a U turn, riding next to Caspian Sea, on way from office to city.

tak-i-tik-i-tak

tak……..tak…..tak………tak
taak……taak…..taak…….taak……taak
tik-tik-tik-tik
tak-tak-tak-tak
tak ………..taak…….. tak……….. taak

The beauty coefficient of this office is so high, it’s hard to focus on the work anyways, yet, and that is an important YET, they have to announce their presence and in what style. From the moment you enter the building every corner you look into, every office you walk into, everywhere, they are everywhere and yet they have to announce their presence every second. Let us not exaggerate it could very well be every other second.

You sit at your allotted seat, stare into the screen that is your laptop, trying to find meaning in what you are attempting to achieve, trying to find meaning in your work, trying to find meaning of life (if you are looking for any meanings at all), when all the meanings are riding on a wave of tak-tak, a wave that is passing by. You feel the rhythm when it starts from one corner, from their seats to restrooms, from their seats to coffee room, from their seats to printers, from their seats to their boss’ seat, from their seats to all the places they have to be. And that’s not it, they are not done, God have mercy they have to walk back from all these places to their seats. One by one. After completing one cycle only to wait till the next starts. And then this to be accounted for every one of them. A cycle at a time. A different person at a time. Many cycles. Many different persons. Many compelling and absorbing cycles. Many competing persons. With the start of each cycle the wave rises. It rises from the far heavens. It travels on the chariots of Gods unknown, travels in a crescendo till it reaches you (you, still staring into that laptop screen, still searching the meanings, sometimes oblivious to the meanings passing you by, sometimes so engrossed in saving what you call your job), the wave reaches you, the tak-tak at its peak, sounding more like TAK TAK. TAK TAK.
And then the wave travels away, on its trough, and farther till it reaches its destination of ephemeral silence. Only just. Only long enough to catch the thread that you lost on your laptop screen. Even after focusing your hardest. And then it starts all over again. Back to where it will wait till the next cycle. But not just travelling back. Travelling back with all the ferocity of travelling forth. And all the while your heart follows the beats as if this is its own beat.
tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak

They were not the best designers, the designers of this office. Or maybe they designed the base before the advent of the heel below the heel. In any case one must forgive fellow men. And so we have tiled floors and the tiles must be the best of their lot, the ones with the loudest acoustic signatures. Or maybe they have special timbers in this part of the world. Special timbers for the special heels of the exclusive feet that support the magnificent legs carrying some of His best craftsmanship. Gods designs.

And then there are your favourites. The tak-tak’s that your ears look forward to. Those special tak-tak’s that carry your favourite faces along. And how innocently they pass you by. As if unknowest of their abilities to crush men. Crush them with nothing but a twist of neck, a fluttering of eyelashes, a swing of the hips, and an innocent movement of the lips. God you made man as the supreme being. Only to crush it thus. Mercy oh creator of benign loveliness. And then those favourite tak-tak’s also pass by and leave you to sort out the irrelevant worldly affairs.

Today you missed that special tak-i-tik-i-tak. Whole morning went by. Lunch time came and went. No tak-i-tik-i-tak. Your ears are straining harder than any normal day. You have to focus on your work even harder than you do when the tak-i-tik-i-tak is present. And just when you have lost all hope in the goodness of tak-tak’s around, you get a glimpse of them, walking by. But the tak-i-tik-i-tak is absent. You wonder for a moment. And then you realise the difference in the chariots of the day for their lovely feet. It’s a Friday and on top it was raining in the morning. The heels are missing. Now, this is one reason to not be thankful to God for a Friday or for the rain. But you are relieved. The world is not as cruel as you were starting to make it. The things will get back to normal. Tak-i-tik-i-tak will return. It will be as pleasant as ever. Yes, it will be.
Sometimes they march together. In twos, in threes and even larger groups. Then the tak-tak has its own music. An orchestra at work. Sometimes in harmony, tak tak tak, sometime with longer larger notes, ttttaaakkkk ttttaaaakkkkk tttttaaakkkk. But sometimes the orchestra is just not out there for the audience. They all are tuning their instruments and getting ready for the later, larger performance. This is when they can cause murders. takakatikataikataikatakatakatakaTAKITAKATIAKATAKATAKA. It’s a soul piercing shriek.

Yet you wonder if they know what powers they have if they march out on this world together. A revolution of the heels. They can bring the structure that this office is down, only if they know their physics right. But then you have this feeling, the beast that kills with beauty seldom kills with brain. The tak-i-tik-i-tak’s are harmless and to be looked forward to.

Her deep eyes, her lovely face, her tender lips, her golden hair, her dark skin and her waist and her legs and her heart and het breaths and her voice and her movements and her waking and her sleeping and her living and her dying and everything that is her’s. Poets and writers and singers and musicians and kings and slaves and Gods and devils. All have talked, written, sung, said, felt about her, in parts and in whole. And yet, yet this is something that calls on their attention. The heels below the heels. Waiting for their bards. Waiting. tak-i-tik-i-tak.

Incorrigibles

Incorrigible afeemkhor, Amitav Ghosh calls one of his characters in Sea of Poppies. The word brings a smile to Habshi’s face.

The word has been with him for past few days. Hanging by.

Incorrigible: Etymology - Recorded since 1340, from Old French incorrigible (1334), or directly from Latin incorrigibilis "not to be corrected", from in- "not" + corrigere "to correct" + -ibilis '-able'
Adjective - incorrigible (not comparable)
· defective and impossible to materially correct or set aright.
· incurably depraved; not reformable.
· impervious to correction by punishment or pain.
· unmanageable.
· determined, unalterable, hence impossible to improve upon.
· (archaic) incurable.
Noun - incorrigible (plural incorrigibles)
· An incorrigibly bad individual

Incorrigible Shiv Sena. Incorrigbile MN Sena. Actually, incorrigible Thakerays’. Infact, incorrigible politicians. Incorrigible terror. Incorrigble terrorists. Actually, incorrigible terrorism. Infact incorrigible war against terrorism. Incorrigible bombs. Incorrigible planters of bombs. Actually and infact incorrigible makers and sellers of bombs.
Incorrigible incorrigibility around.

But it’s not all these incorrigibilities that have been with Habshi these days. Incorrigible afeemkhor. There is a memory of the word that brought that smile. From a very far, and where he sits now, a distant world.

Information is easily accesible and abundantly available these days. A click on www and you have more answers then you care to read. But this memory is long before the days when he saw and perused a computer and even before he got familiar with www.

It was 1994. Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja was the principal at Sainik School Kapurthala (SSK). A strict man. And, from Habshi’s memories, a man far removed from the world in which the pupils under his charge lived. Not physically, he lived right there in the middle, but in every other sense of the world, as worldly affairs go. He had a tattoo on his forearm (most likely if Habshi’s memory is anywhere close). It said Sham or Dudeja, maybe Sunder in Punjabi. One of the three words from his name. In one of those rare moments of trying to mix in with the pupils, in the art room of SSK, he had displayed the art that was his tattoo to few young and not very excited or aspiring artists. But that’s that, Habshi thinks.

So it was 1994. Like any other year. As far as the world of SSK was concerned, they sometimes called it as Sat Saal Kaid, so 1994 was another year out of the seven of the Kaid for the seven classes at that time attending the school under the charge of Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja. And it so happened that Habshi was in class 8th at the time.

In the hostels (or houses as commonly called at SSK) and there were 10 of them if we don’t count Ranjit which did not have much of a say, maybe because his downfall lead to the complete British domination and the other 10 proudly fell in chasing away the British or they survived the British or so the person who named the houses thought so. Personally, Habshi thought Maharajah Ranjit Singh deserved much more recognition than that little three room shamble that the house was. But he wasn’t particularly concerned. His loyalities lying with Chitranjan, Sarojini and Patel, and somewhat with the batch of 1992-99. 1992-1999, yes the seven years of his kaid.

But we are in 1994. He was thinking of 1994. Of the word incorrigible and the smile that was there a while ago and the just about thereness and so very nearness of the memory these past few days. So he had left Chitranjan where he was with his class, class 8th and after the re-allotment of the houses he was now in Sarojini with pupils from 7th, 8th, and 9th all housed together, junior houses. 10th-12th shared houses as well, senior houses. The restructure was to promote more unity and harmony among classes. The seniors fought among themselves on a class basis. So they thought maybe putting them together could solve the issue. Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja thought so. And didn’t he know that he was far removed, living in a different world from his pupils. Well he was an army officer and in an army institute seniormost officer is right (at least what they say). So the restruture happened. In 1994. When SSK was under the charge of Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja. When Habshi was in class 8th.

He was given Sarojini house in the re-allotment. The worst house as far as location goes with respect to the senior houses. Blood sucking hounds. And useless hounds at that. And that’s not a thing to be proud of. Proud to be a Saikapian. Well most of the hounds say that few years after getting out of Kaid. So, Habshi was alloted Sarojini house. Mr J L Jain was the housemaster. Funny fellow he was. Habshi thinks so. JiyaLalJain was funny. Funny fellow. Mr. Sher Singh was the other teacher who was attached to the house. Now they had a term for those two teachers attached to a house (other than the housemaster), but Habshi’s memory fails him. Maybe tutors. Maybe. Sher Singh caught him and few others with the stolen rotis from the mess once. But that’s a story for another day. Sher Singh was a fine fellow. The third teacher with the house. Habshi has a memory of his face. Sukhi or some similar sort of name. He wasn't a very catchy personna so his memory fails to bring out this name. Though he did help Habshi with one of the declamantion contests. Or was that in Chittaranjan. Habshi is getting confused now. So leave that as that.

Still, we are in 1994, the classes of 8th, 9th and 10th are living together in few houses (junior houses they call them) and Sarojini is one of them. J L Jain is the house master. And Lt. Col Sham Sunder Dudeja is the prinicipal of SSK. And, that is that.

Now what did he say. That restructure of the houses was to promote the feeling of harmony. What a bloody Joke!!. Of cousre Habshi knows which book he gets this line from but its apt and that is what came to his mind so that’s that as well.

Habshi’s friends in class 9th thought that they have struck a lottery. How it was in dear SSK, as he thinks now, is that it was a thoroughly horrible place to keep youngsters and have the control of their lives in the hand of mob-rule. Not that Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja thought so. But then it was 1994. In 1995 he would think a little differently, though not much. He was very near to the incident that caused that smile. And that prophetic word was just hovering around in his books, in the pages of his dictionaries, the daily raddi of his newspapers, somewhere around the corner, just away from the eye, but there to be discovered. A word that that was as true for him and his institution of mediocracy as he thought it was true for the pupils he asked that question.

In a chain of few very disturbing incidents, to the minds of class 8th, 9th class started taking a few unwarranted liberties with the newly acquired power in their hands. They were not the smartest lot Habshi had seen and from what his memories tell him their lot never improved outstandingly. Not with the coming years in the school and not after leaving school. Not all but most of them. Anyways. So after what seemed like few very unfair and unjustified events class 8th decided it was time for some action. To make a fight for it. Now that was something. Imagine bunch of 14-15 years old trying to bring in what they were thinking some sort of revolution. Again Habshi will have to give in to the temptation. What a bloody joke!! Yet, it was a noble idea. Coming where it was coming from. The minds of class 8th of SSK under the charge of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja in the year 1994, in the third year of their Sat Saal Kaid.

His memory is not with him now. Can’t remember who was the first to suggest and who the first to second. But there it was, said by someone, heard by many, acceptable to most, understood by few, but there it was in the middle of all. The idea of a revolution. And it did happen. It was 1994. The year that preceeded 1995. The year when Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja will think differently, though not so differently. But it was the year where he was going to make that statement, say the word that defined so many things in and around him, including his charge, SSK.

It, the revolution, didn’t occur in the grand style they had thought. It was not a 100% success. Not by any means of trickery to the rules of Mathematics can it be approximated as close to 100%. But it did happen. And it was funny to look at if you think about it now. But for the perspective of 14 year olds it was nothing short of a war. And then one night Habshi, along with many of his class, found himself jumping the four feet boundary of SSK. It was the third year of their seven year Kaid. Most of the fellas took the roads to their homes. He went along with few to Jalandhar. His road to Sultanpur had no companion and it was dark and he was still 14, though amid revolutionaries. And so it happened that in 1994, class 8th pupils ran away from SSK in the middle of night to protest against the restructure of hostels and against the liberties taken by the seniors with the newly acquired power of living among juniors.

As everyone knows it was not a very successful revolution. Apart from apology letters signed by parents, few warnings to all students and some serious warnings to those who were considered leaders not much happened. Though it was fun and the lot of 14-15 years old thought that they have made their statement.

And in the aftermath of the revolution, when the last of the parents had signed apologies and taken warning letters home, leaving their charges once again under the charge of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja, in the year of 1994, during the third year of the fellas’ seven year kaid, a meeting was called. Above the sports store, at the first floor terrace, on the right side wing of the palace. All the class 8th students sat there and in walked Lt. Col. Sham Sunder Dudeja.

The silence was audible to all as he took his chair and surveyed the young revolutiories. After what seemed like an eternity in silence he said “Incorrigible”. A pause, a very long pause, the one that Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja could have pulled only in front of a gathering of 14-15 years old. “Can anyone tell me what incorrigible means?”.

Who answered him, who was the valedictorian that day? Habshi does not remember. Most likely it must have been Scientist or may be Bawa madam’s son Aditya. They were the closest to understanding the sound of that word in 1994 among all those revolutionaries. How does it matter anyways.

“Kutte ki dumb” that’s how everyone understood after Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja was done with the revolutionaries. A dogs tail. Of course the rest of the proverb goes along.

He smiles now. Thinking of the day and how it marked the life of many. Most of them were truly incorrigible and are till these days. Indeed the words of Lt Col Sham Sunder Dudeja, in the year of 1994 said as they were in front of young revolutionries of class 8th, in third year of their seven year Kaid, were prophetic. And Habshi thinks for a while about all those incorrigibles. Just for a while before he gets back to Sea of Poppies and the incorrigible afeemkors of Amitav Ghosh.

Unspoken

...… He would die without telling his story. He found this thought intolerable and so it refused to leave him, it crawled in and out of his ears, slid into the corners of his eyes and stuck to the roof of his mouth and to the soft tissue under his tongue. All men needed to hear their stories told. He was a man, but if he died without telling his story he would be something less than that, an albino cockroach, a louse. The dungeon did not understand the idea of a story. The dungeon was static, eternal, black, and a story needed motion and time and light. He felt his story slipping away from him, becoming inconsequential, ceasing to be. He had no story. There was no story. He was not a man. There was no man here. There was only the dungeon, and the slithering dark.

… He would not rest in peace. In death as in life he would be full of unspoken words and they would be his Hell, tormenting him through all eternity…..
- The Enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie.

A Walk in the Desert

It was a statement made with no evil intentions, hard feelings or any anger it was merely stated as an honest observation. But it was so close to the truth. For one odd instance I agreed with Faizal, without a doubt.

Dubai is a sprawling monster of a city, a Godzilla in itself in terms of business world today. But all it takes is stepping out of the gates of the tallest buildings, largest malls, most expensive hotels, biggest commercial complexes, the gold souks and all those manmade structures, just step out and the hot and dry desert winds tell the story. They whisper of the beginnings as they must have been when the air conditioning was still to bring the comforts. As these winds change their free flowing ways to adjust for these odd structures in their way, the kind of structures that don’t bend when they pass nor dance in joy or share the sorrow in news of the world the winds carry.

We had checked out from our hotel. Plan was to eat at Options and from there straight to airport. Options, by Sanjeev Kumar. One good Indian meal before entering the land of Azeris. It was a hundred meters walk and off we went with our luggage dragging along. We were passing the convention center and discussing the crowds of few days ago for fooDubai convention. It was like all the businessmen from around the world have suddenly woken up and found them in Dubai and there they were selling their products to one and all. Actually selling the idea of the products, actual products were to follow after the deals were penned, filed, catalogued and locked.

One of the very many things that you observe when you are in Dubai is how many youngsters here live the life of riches. With the gold hanging around and out from various possible parts of the body, the bellies already showing signs of maturing wisdom of being very well fed, the hubble bubble of all the latest electronic gadgets, the most expensive ones, falling out of various pockets and the unending (or so I think) flow of currency from the bottomless pockets, these youngsters already give a look of their grown up selves. A look which radiates with the beams which says “we are the kings”. Sons of Emirs. Kings of Emirates. Imposingly United Emirates.

So here we were, me and Faizal, Faizal and I, whichever works better, crossing from Novotel to Options and in front of convention center, when Faizal asks me if I ever played sin city. “No”. So he explained a little about the game and it sounded like Age of Empires, you make your towns and kingdoms and all that. I was wondering why he suddenly got interested in sin city and building of cities and kingdoms. He continued, “Generally at the start of the game you get some resources allocated and then you work out strategies and make money and increase infrastructure, you plan how much to spend where and all. Like what would be in real life if you are building a city from zero. But there was this trick which one of my friends told me. It was some sort of code. They called it the cheat money. So you just entered this code (somewhere) and you got like a billion dollars or resources. Now you forget about planning your economy. No need to work to make money and grow. No strategies. Just build whatever you like and make your city as big and strong and all.” It was very hot, the hundred or so meter walk could tell a person the truth of weather in Dubai. It’s all air conditioned insides but it only adds to the harshness of the nature outside. Faizal concluded, “It is the same with Dubai. They have this trick money, the oil money”.

Though not very true for Dubai in the current context, but the emir’s coffers must have plenty of oil money stashed under money coming from the other trades now.

And I just nodded in agreement, less with the content, more with the context of the statement.

Five Minute 35 Seconds

It has started raining. They are predicting a snow storm over the weekend. Few days ago it rained and snow followed. Snow or no snow, strong winds ensure the place always feels freezing cold. I jog to the minibus, open the sliding door and hop in. It is warm inside. Feels better. Find myself a seat and buckle on the seat belt. It is too dark by the time office closes to be reading a book on way back. Music is the next best option.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
the regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Makin' love to his tonic and gin
He say, Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes

Ticking of time is such a constant, one hardly notices. And then there comes a day when it stops. Others still don’t notice. Ticking goes on.

The lights have come on at most of the places. The way back from office to the city is through and over the top of a hill. It makes for a good view. It’s a city that never gets dark (artificial lights mostly). From top of the hill one can see every other place brightly lit. The tower (which I don’t know is for what) changes colors at its regular pace. Red, bright green, sharp blue. The cycle goes on. A red, a green, a blue. The place stays full of light all the time. Lately snow has added to the glow. Nights are nearly white.

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says Bill, I believe this is killing me
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place

The pot holes on the road are beginning to fill with rainwater. Maybe it’s the water from previous rain. Sun has not been strong enough past few days to dry anything. Putting face next to the window glass brings that freezing feeling back.

The place I would rather be…I believe this is killing me…. Life does so to so many, one stops noticing. Just like the ticking of time.

Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talking with Davy who's still in the navy
And probably will be for life
And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone

It is a good song. One song can carry one through so many different emotions and memories in such a short time.
I play it again.

The owner of the apartment was generous with the wall clocks. Put three in the house. The ticking was very noticeable, as it was very audible. When you live with the books and the walls as company, the ticking seconds are the sound you hear the most. Removed the clock from bedroom late one night. The ticking sound along with the brightness of the night can keep you awake.

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see
To forget about life for awhile.

The bus has dropped us on the corner ‘Ani Duniya (New World) Market’ circle, from where I walk to the apartment (the blue buildings). Two other colleagues also get down at the same stop. Slowly we branch out into our three different streets.

And the piano sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say "Man, what are you doin' here?"

Into the elevator. Up seven floors. Fumble with keys. Hit the light button. I have reached the place that till morning will be the pit stop. I put on the song once again. Five minute 35 seconds.

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight.
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright.

Pub William Shakespeare

Apart from the fact that there are few portraits of Sir William Shakespeare, it’s just another pub. ‘Pub William Shapespeare’. Owned and operated by few Pakistanis it’s a popular place in the nightlife of Baku. Maharajah (an Indian cuisine restaurant) belonging to the same owners is right above the pub and, I was told, they also have an Italian food place just across the street. Shehjad and Ashfaque, if I remember the names correctly. Their brother Kashif is here from Pakistan for few months.

Enter three Schlumberger employs. Ali is a regular visitor, Iolut not so regular and me being a first timer. Ali practically eats here every night (gets a good 20% discount as I find out later, “because he knows the owners” Iolut adds). Ali is a Pakistani. Iolut a Romanian. I am introduced to the pub owners and as at every other place with Indians or Pakis around one gets into that desi mode pretty easily. The elders soon get busy with their work and Kashif joins us on the table for food. The language of conversation is a mix of Urdu, Punjabi and Hindi. I apologise to Iolut and he sportingly excuse us.

All the girls in the pub are pros (using a very desi word for pro), Ali points out. Even the waitresses, I ask. Sometimes. Especially near closing time, Ali adds.

There is a pool table in the middle of the bar. The girl bending on the table to take the shot has everyones attention from our table. Desis will be desis.

Stairs next to entrance lead to Maharajah on the first floor. I order from Maharajah, the menu for pub hardly having anything vegetarian. While I was giving order Ali informs that the waitress knows Urdu. Arzoo, I guess must be a Paki as well. I didn’t enquire from Ali if she qualifies for the pro rule.

You write your name on the board on wall next to the bar (if you want to play pool).The person who loses the game leaves and the next name on the board joins the winner for next game. The new player sets the table. The winner starts the new game. Once you lose you can add your name at the bottom of the list (if you wish to play again). Iolut, Ali and Kashif explain the pool rules as they wait for their turn. Over next few hours I am pleasantly surprised to find these rules being followed religiously.

Enter another SLB employee. Introductions and handshakes. He is here to celebrate the retirement of two another SLB employees. Different department hence I don’t know anyone. Sixty two years of experience among the two retirees informs the gentleman whose name I didn’t catch when we shook hands. Iolut was playing pool, his name being the first among three sitting on our table so we let the new entrant have his seat. Like any old oilfield hand, he is full of anecdotes about oilfield work in general and Schlumberger life and work in particular.
Some Crazy Head Lunatic Using Minimal Brains Expects Rewards Greatly Exceeding Results, he augments SCHLUMBERGER. It’s not his original, someone he worked with decades ago.

“Men should wash weekly” welcomes the signboard on the men restroom. Can’t make any sense as to why would they put this up. Just because something has to be said, maybe.

Ali pays the bill. I once again shake hands with the owners (making sure they remember the face in case I ever come back, 20% discount is big money the way things are priced in Baku).

‘Is dil ki aarzoo hai koi …’. Finally, it hits me as I am entering the house. Was trying to remember the song ever since Ali called the waitress Arzoo. I asked him if he has seen Arzoo. “Three idiots dekhi, mast movie hai”, he replied.

But for those portraits the place could have been called anything. What’s in a name?