Relevance of Relevance

Scratch any designer worth his (her) professional salt, and you will find the chief deity of his profession, the User. This User – the ubiquitous and the all pervasive phenomenon who is ‘virajman’ in the sanctum sanctorum of the temple of design – demands, drives and possesses the design practitioner and his priest-craft.

The User also defines the sacred liturgy of the design profession – user, user profile, usage, use cases, usability, usefulness, user-centricity, user advocacy, user context, user relevance…

Just pick the last one, Relevance. It’s something of a sacred notion – after all, you want every schema and artifact you analyze and produce as a designer to be Relevant to the User. And of course Relevance is not a thing, it’s relationship term, a kind of a kinship term, it’s not a thing that exists by itself.  Is the downgrading of the US debt rating to AA+ less or more relevant than Kate Middleton’s rumored anorexia? Throw a User (consumer of information) into the mix and only then can you talk about Relevance.

But does this principle of Relevance have no down side to it? Alas, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Eli Pariser’s book ‘Filter Bubble – What The Internet Is Hiding From You’ explores the search and personalization algorithms used by the Internet Big Boys (Yahoos!, Googles, and Facebooks of the world) that filter information and give you what is Relevant to You (based on your personal history and past searches). This, argues Pariser, creates the phenomenon of a closed bubble arising out of the relevance paradox where the more you find some things relevant, the more you are served similar things – effectively cutting you off from alternate perspectives, ideas, opinions, practices or world views. If effect, by serving you with dishes drawn from the menu you like over and over, you are prevented from experiencing new cuisines and tastes that might (potentially) enlarge your palette and make you a better connoisseur.

Is there an alternative? Would you always want to be served with what you know you like, or would you, once in a while, want the waiter to suggest you ‘something different’?

Some of these Internet Big Boys have a system where the personalization algorithms can be overridden by humans (waiters!) who decide a link to a story is important enough to be served to you even if the algorithm thinks that it ‘ranks low in relevance going by user’s history’. But, of course, in this case, it is a human deciding what choices to give you. Either way, your curry is rated, ranked, curated and served hot!

The larger question is, is this such a unique phenomenon wrought by exploding information technologies OR is this a more normal and natural paradox, a part of what we are and how we function in the world? The fact is, most things we see, do or experience – are done by choice. (I am not talking about acts of nature and coincidence here). You read a book, you watch a movie, you eat a meal, you share a photo, you discuss a topic – all out of the choices you make, from an innate sense of what is meaningful and interesting to you. This obviously precludes your inner experience from the book you haven’t read, the movie you haven’t seen or the topic you haven’t discussed. Thats’s a fact of life. Every choice you make is a tradeoff between it and the choices you haven’t made.

But it does not mean you cannot peek outside the filter bubble, outside the algorithm, when you really want to. That too is a choice, and sometimes, it can be a stronger force than Relevance.

The Time That It Was

On the occasion of the birth centenary of Sri Rallapalli Krishnamurthy-garu, August 2011.
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I was just a boy - perhaps all of seven years, glowing with all the attention of being the best man (thodi pelli koduku) at my brother's wedding. Friends and relations all over the place, the controlled chaos, fervor and excitement of the upcoming ceremonies, being woken up at odd times to the ear-splitting sounds of nadaswaram and dholu, excited that I will receive a vadina (sister-in-law) in the family... and a bit scared too.

I don't remember seeing Krishnamurthygaru before the wedding... may be I have. But I do remember seeing him, and the rest of the Rallapalli clan, at the marriage hall. I would run around the satram with my similar aged cousins, proudly wearing my new shirt and shorts, my eyes slightly smudged with katuka (eye liner) because I was freshly 'anointed' with a katuka and bugga chukka (black dot on the cheek) proclaiming my status as the best man.

I would hide behind the corners and pillars, stealing glances at the woman who would become my vadina as she bobbed and disappeared behind a sea of silk clad relatives. I remember she looked nervous, which made it OK because I was nervous too. I remember Sugunammagaru calling out to me, gathering me to her and speaking to me. Again, I don't remember what she said,  but I do remember she kept smiling at me, which too made it OK. And I remember running away from Krishnamurthygaru and the rest of the male elders because, well, they were elders and they were male.

For a seven year old, there was nothing more terrifying than being accosted by male elders, and there was nothing more comforting than being shown motherly affection by the women elders. I remember too, that my yet-to-be vadina smiling at me as I looked at her. But it was the smile of a nervous bride, herself anxious, herself unsure.

My cousins and I were always the first ones to sit down to a wedding meal - first batch, first row; leaning against the thickly painted green walls, rickety old fans making more noise than wind, small plantain leaves and steel glasses set in rows on the floor, smells of pongal and halva wafting down the hall, towel-clad servers pouring dark coffee from tall steel jugs.

As the ceremonies rolled on, I would sit next my brother and watch my new would-be family through the pungent smoke of the homams, fragrant with the smell of burnt ghee - my nervous looking vadina, the quiet (perhaps apprehensive in her own way) Sugunammagaru (What I should call her? Atta?), and the stern looking (stern to the eyes of a seven year old) Krishnamurthygaru. But I was not anxious - after all, I was in the strength-giving proximity of my brother, and my mother sitting a row behind me.

I don't think I spoke with Krishnamurthygaru at all.

Cut to a visit to Chennai, much after the wedding (was it Avadi, or was it someplace else before that?). All I remember is being anxious once more because I was at 'their' house. Once again, the warm presence of Sugunamma garu made it less nervous. I remember Hindi songs being played or sung - a language as alien to me then as Hebrew. I remember Lata Mangeshkar was a hot favorite ("Rasik balma hai..."), although I didn't know who (or what) Lata Mangeshkar was. I remember a few Telugu songs too, nervously sung by vadina ("Radhaku neevera pranam").

All the while, I would avoid being caught alone by the 'male elders' mentioned, particularly the 'elderest' of them all. I was still terrified of Krishnamurthygaru. I mean what if, as is their usual wont, they asked me to recite a multiplication table or two, what if they asked me about things I didn't now but didn't want to admit - like the capital of a state?

It was the age when all men tried to test you, while all women just gave you their love.

But as it happened, one morning I was sitting down doing nothing in particular and Krishnamurthygaru stepped into the hall, freshly bathed and wrapped in towels. My heart sank at being alone with him. And then the dreaded thing happened. Standing near the other end of the hall, he asked me what time it was. There was, of course, a clock on the wall. As I looked at it, my mind froze (did I really know how to tell the time at that age? Alas, I don't remember). May be I read the time accurately (chinna mullu for hours and pedda mullu multiplied by five) or may be I just made up an answer.

But even as I was dearly wishing I was in the kitchen with Sugunammagaru and her comforting presence, I had no option but to croak out an answer. It is highly probable I made something up out of sheer panic. I thought he might shout at me, I thought he would glare at me, I was worried he would ridicule me, I feared he would ask me more 'test' questions - but, in the end, he just looked at me and smiled.

May be I read the time right and passed the test (unlikely). Or may be, he just wanted me to be more relaxed with him (more likely). At any rate, his smile was a huge huge relief and I think I was less petrified of him after that.

I know that as a recall and remembrance, this is somewhat meager. But if life is a tapestry of multiple weaves and connections, perhaps this too has it's own place, even if the particular thread is a short one.

Weaving a Design

There’s a beautiful poem by the great spiritualist Kabir that goes by the opening ‘Jheeni re Jheeni’. Kabir was a weaver by profession and spiritualist by nature. In this poem, he literally weaves the elements of his vocation with the high philosophy of life and living.

Using this as a simile, he connects life (and body) to a beautiful tapestry. The poem talks about how life’s impulses form the warp and the five elements the weft – creating the tapestry that we call life… and so on. He interprets these connections and constructs the form of his poem. The poem itself is like a weave.

So what? What’s that got to do with design? Leave aside the high philosophy of the poem (the content), and you see the pure craftsmanship of it.

Design of a symbol, or any other design act for that matter, must be a deliberated act of connecting, interpreting and then constructing. Conceptually, the design approach must first distill and arrive at strong narratives – what story must the design tell? What aspects must it emphasize? What mood must it create? What balance must it strike? That’s the conceptual connection. We must then interpret this connection visually, formally, and graphically so that we have a ‘complete construct’ that is resolved and cohesive. Even if we present only drafts (as we normally do as a part of the design process), the drafts themselves must be complete and cohesive, even if they are not refined in presentation.

At times, we are missing out on this collective deliberation as well as individual critique that is a part of good design approach. We must adopt more effective ways of deliberating, coming up with conceptual connections and have internal critiques that will help us pick, debate, choose or discard things that work and things that don’t work.

The dot sa Diary

May 2011

Where am I? It takes a moment for my brain to kick in. After a long journey and sleep deprivation, I can't blame myself for being a bit cotton brained. Where am I? I sit up from the soft bed (too soft, too springy) and my back is muttering a protest. Where am I? OK, I am thousands of miles from home and the morning is chilly. I pull the curtains and look out. A very small piece of Saudi Arabia in bright morning light.

Saudi Arabia, the cradle of Islam, the birth place of Prophet Mohammad, the heart of Arabia, home to numerous tribes, the nomadic Bedouin - but all that is history. Saudi Arabia, the oil rich kingdom, the staunch ally of the U.S., the epicenter of pan-Arabism, the place that Osama's family called (and still calls) home, the state with strict Shariah laws. The Saudi Arabia that I see out of the window is indistinguishable from any modern landscape, anywhere in the world. The hum of the Air Conditioning unit and those tall buildings in the entire arc of sight. So of course the reality is a bit beyond the stereotypes. But to say that is in itself a stereotype.

The daily paper Arab News is peeking from under the door. Out of habit, I turn to the last page first. I am half expecting to see Dhoni in yellow uniform hitting a six, bat raised high. (Have Chennai beat the Royals?) What I see is an all American baseball player hitting a home run, bat raised high. OK, thousands of miles from home. I am a little surprised - (my brain is chugging to a slow rhythm now) - people here are interested in American sport. Now to the front page - the main news item says that some talks with some delegation were disappointing. OK. I turn the pages - where are the ads, where are the juicy stories, WHERE IS THE NEWSPAPER? I am too used to my daily diet of absurdity - three new scams breaking, a couple of old ones, the minister vehemently denying that he ever said what he said on camera, models draped in Joy Alukkas gold for Akshara Tritiya, one Khan taking a dig at another, the grinning face of Vatal Nagaraj doing yet another 'novel protest' alongside a painted donkey (Bangalore edition), the movies, the drama, the politics, the tears, the joys, the platitudes, the kitsch, the serious and the absurd, the pot holes and the pot bellies. WHERE IS THE NEWSPAPER? Some reports on the Arab Spring and the American diplomacy in the middle east. Some little thing about Pakistan and China. I finish reading the paper in seven minutes - thank God for the cartoons. May be the Arabic ones are more self respecting. I wouldn’t know.

As I hail a taxi outside the hotel, I tell myself that 9 out of 10 times it would be a Pakistani driver. The rugged looking driver winds the window down and speaks across the passenger seat. A Pakistani. Traffic is not heavy. The car zips over the broad and well-laid roads. Hardly any trees anywhere, some palms here and there. I see the blue sky flashing between the imposing buildings, set far apart. The sky looks huge, like a super massive blue bowl upturned over a featureless flat plate dotted with beige buildings. There is no dearth of land here, no need for common walls, no need to push and jostle. This is Jeddah - there is no sign of the frenetic construction that is Dubai's signature tune. The car zips over the broad and well-laid roads. Lots of hoardings, repeatedly punctuated by the avuncular face of King Abdullah watching and waving from giant billboards. The silky white thobe lined with gold, palm spread in a casual greeting. Welcome to S­audi Arabia (I assume). I watch the street signs, I look at the merchant signs. Somehow I have had the impression that Arabic script looked very complex, very counter-intuitive, unreadable like chicken scratches on hard mud. But no, I am astonished at the profusion of type styles - the calligraphic, the modern, the romantic, the heavy, the minimalist, the ornate – each of which looks well crafted. The strong horizontals punctuated by the vertical strokes, the crescent curves, the dipping bowls, the profusion of dots that make up the diacritics - you see that the script lends itself to extremely intricate patterns, like the Quranic calligraphy, as well as to austere, Bauhausian simplicity. The light brown eyes of the driver are watching me in the mirror. They are framed by steel gray hair, the stubbly chin and the luxuriant Karachiwala mustaches  - I realize we have arrived and he is patiently waiting for me to get out. Sometime during the journey he has told me he is from Pakistani Kashmir – he doesn’t call it Azad Kashmir, and I have no business talking about POK. I hand him 20 riyals and say 'shukriya' and get out into a very warm morning.

The client offices take up the entire 5 story building. Security staff take away my driving license before handing a visitor pass. Then I pass through the turnstile operated by the guard. No words exchanged, just greeting nods and acknowledgement nods. May be tomorrow I will greet them with a Salaam Alaikum. The offices are very modern, very plush – glass, steel, thick carpets, precision furniture and fixtures. The conference room walls are mounted with small monitors displaying the name of the person who booked the room – some say ‘Available’. Most men are in flowing white thobes, spotlessly clean and well tailored. Some are bare headed, some are covered in white kefiyas – all at work. Not many women but they are in black abayas. Conversations are loud, not self conscious. As I pick my way, the lilting sounds of Arabic come to me with heavily aspirated ‘uh’. Somebody is saying suh, suh repeatedly – I agree, I agree. Then the conversation is over – shukran, thank you.

People seem very relaxed – something of an American ease in the way they sit on the edge of the table as they talk to their colleagues, the loud guffaws of laughter. Not surprising, many of them spent time in US or UK. Later, I see some men behind glass doors kneeling and praying, but nothing is imposed. I meet our client rep who speaks with a bit of Arab American accent. People are very pleasant, sometimes the Arabic accent is a bit strong, but easy to understand.

A full day, meetings, a quick cheese sandwich in the cafeteria.

I am surprised the taxi that takes me back to the hotel has another Kashmiri Pakistani at the wheels. Later, after four Pakistani drivers, I catch a Bangladeshi. I expect a few Sardarjis driving taxis – but I don’t see any. Not many non-Muslims around. Not that Indians are rare.

The bellboy who opens the hotel doors and picks up my luggage when I first come to the hotel tells me he is Firoz from Kerala. When I hand him a 10 Riyal tip, he says Thangyou. And then the man who hands me tea twice a day at the offices tells me he is from Chennai. I go to the third floor which contains the IT department. I see a lot of Indian faces turning towards me – well, what do you expect! They work on weekends (Thursday and Friday) too – well, what do you expect!

I am also struck by the diversity of the Arab features. The big built ones with extremely fair skin, almost indistinguishable from the Europeans; the lean coffee colored ones with West African features and shining smooth complexion; the dark skinned central Africans, and the Asian looking ones who could pass off as Indians or Pakistanis. It’s truly the Middle East – ancient civilizations, old trade routes, rich histories, a melting pot of races.

Mecca and Madina (or Medinah) are a big part of that melting pot. Pilgrims come from all over the world for their Umrah – the holy pilgrimage. Apparently, there are significant differences between Hajj and Umrah although both are pilgrimages – but that’s another topic. My flight to Jeddah, for example, was full of pilgrims. Pilgrims dressed in two pieces of white cloth – distinct from others. They remind me of Shwethambar Jains. Midway through the flight, I turn on the overhead lamp and start filling out my Saudi arrival form. ‘Drug traffickers will be put to death’ – the form warns me in red ink at the top. Glad to be warmed in advance! Within minutes fifteen other people approach me with their forms. Most are pilgrims, they take out their Umrah permits. The newly issued permits are folded over a million times and are already tearing at the creases. They are carefully unfolded. So I take the permits, the passports and the forms. The form has separate rows for first name, second name, third name and the fourth name. Which in itself is unfamiliar to me. But the first passport I open (a thin young man from Rajasthan who looks proud to be visiting the Holy Mosques) says his name is Imran. Imran what - Imran nothing. Just Imran? Haan, ji – he happily informs me. So I enter the name in the First Name box and hope for the best. People are leaning over their chairs – permits, forms and passports in hand. Babu Ahmed is middle aged, and is from Bihar. He is not going on a pilgrimage. He is returning to work. He is an aluminum fabricator in Jeddah. In his hand he has an arrival form just like mine, different from the Umrah form. Babu Ahmed smiles at me encouragingly. This is going to take a while.    

Today I am waiting for the alarm to ring, already awake but not wanting to be. It does. So I pull Arab News from under the door. I turn cynically to the last page. Surprise! Half the paper is devoted to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s love-child. I look at the bottom and OMG, there’s Salman Khan’s photo! First page, top half, it’s a deconstruction of Obama’s Arab speech - most Arabs seem to think it’s all bunkum, long on rhetoric, short on clarity. That’s not all. I turn to the inside last page, half expecting to see an all American baseball player. I see Gautam Gambhir! Apparently he led Kolkata into the IPL playoffs. What’s happening? It’s like the God of Newspapers heard my plaints and decided to set me right. Henceforth, thou shalt treat the paper with a bit more respect. At last some news and some juice! There’s fair amount of international news about NATO, Syria, Egypt and Yemen. There’s even a half page op-ed about Indo-Pak tensions fueled by media – about how we both squander our resources on weakening each other instead of fighting the common enemies. Fair enough. I will spend a little more time reading the news than curling my lip at it. But a whisper in my ear says ‘it’s Friday today… the weekend. So this might be the special edition’. Well, the paper doesn’t say so. So I don’t know.

The breakfast in the hotel is a saving grace. The spread is huge with mostly continental offerings. I have come to rely on it for my sustenance because I know the rest of the meals are a chore. Taking the pride of place on one of the tables is a well crafted samovar with a deep neck. It is tilted at an angle. There’s a three foot long ladle sticking out of the neck. It is filled with a thick soupy paste apparently made of fava beans, spices, garlic and lemon juice. My colleague calls it ‘Egyptian pav bhaji’ as he sprinkles chopped onions and tomatoes on top. It tastes good, once you negotiate the long ladle on to the plate without making a mess. There’s no pav at hand, so you eat it with a croissant. Later, a bit of rooting around Google tells me the dish is called Fūl medammis, a staple meal in Egypt, and popular in Africa and Middle East. Tick one for experience – actually, I do eat it fairly regularly in the following days, but I go easy on sprinkling chopped onions. It’s just the start of the day and there are usually meetings coming up. So.

When I fire up my Firefox, it just shows a search box, a few words and a button – I am in Google, the Arabic language version. The cursor blinks happily inside the box - on the right side. I don’t know what those the few words mean. May be one of them says Click here to Google in English – but in Arabic. I type some gibberish and Enter. I get a bunch of links in Arabic but right at the top it says ‘Google.com in English’. Finally, a road sign I can understand. I click that and I am back in business. The smart folks in Google know where I am logging in from and served me the Arabic version as default. But the same smart folks also know not everybody in Arabia is Arab or can read Arabic. (Haven’t you heard of international travel?) Yeah, smart folks. Many of the searches take me to sites with .sa extension – sa as in Saudi Arabia. I am supposed to get familiar with local trading and investing systems – I walk past the names I learn recently – Tadawul, TASI and Sukuk funds. And watch many dot sa sites as they come up.

The evening is bright orange. Traffic is heavy. The taxi passes by an imposing compound which announces its name as ‘Group Bin Laden’. Big compound with high walls and a big steel sign in English. I have read about the Bin Laden Group, one of the family businesses of Osama. Another thing I can tick off I guess.

The conference rooms are really fancy – smart boards with touch screen controls, video camera connected to the board, overhead projection system, three-pronged speakers phones from Cisco. The chairs look like they come from the space shuttle. Knobs, levers, glide tracks for arm rests – very fancy. People are still tricking in – there’s a pre-meeting banter going on. On a whim, I get under the chair and check the makers name. It’s a Herman Miller chair. They are supposed to be modern classics. The Aeron chair has been much imitated. It turned the notion of what an office chair should be upside down. I have first read about them in Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. The chair is very comfortable. You can spend hours just fiddling with the chair. Would I find the chair as comfortable if I didn’t know about Herman Miller? I am sure it’s the kind of question Gladwell would ask.

By the third day or so, I realize (thanks to Arab News), that the king is not referred to as His Highness or His Excellency. In print at least, he is always ‘the custodian of the two Holy Mosques King Abdullah’. The princes are called just princes. BBC news tells me at least one of those princes has been arrested in London for severely beating up someone. Oh the burdens of power! The King is coming to Jeddah the next day. That explains why the roads were all lit up and the fountains were at full nozzle the previous evening. A test run may be. The entire stretch of the road was strung with pairs of green flags, leaning over from the central poles like crossed arms. The Saudi Arabian national flag – deep green background with an intricate Arabic inscription in white that looks tightly woven. Below the inscription is a sword, hilt to the right. One more thing to find out about.

OK, now I know. The inscription on the flag says ‘la ilaha illallah, Mohammad rasulu allah’ – There is only one God and Mohammad (peace be upon him) is his messenger. This is both a declaration and a proclamation, something that every Muslim is expected to proclaim in sincerity and faith. One of the pillars of being a Muslim. The long sword below looks jarring – till I realize that many national flags, especially those with strong royal histories, have adopted royal coats of arms as their emblem. And coats of arms are meant to convey power, strength, valor and ultimately dominance – a roaring lion, a fierce dragon, the sharp-eyed eagle, the ramparts of a citadel, the sword, the shield, the lance, the crown – all symbols of might and dominance.

That proclamation which Muslims consider a pillar has been appropriated by many Jihadist groups – the Palestinian Hamas wears it like a headband, for instance – something that makes others uncomfortable because it creates more Islamophobia, more racial profiling, more typecasting. There are no blacks and whites in a complex world.

In the papers is the story of Manal Al-Shariff, the woman who drove a car alone in the town of Alkhobar, without a male companion, took a video of it and uploaded it to You Tube. She is in jail for nobody knows exactly what because some clerics have said what she did was not against religion. Some said it was. Police said something about ‘inciting public opinion’ and arrested her. Some said she was instigated. In Letters to Editors, one Steve from Jeddah has strongly voiced his protest. Editorially, the news paper seems to agree that the ban is outdated and backward.

There is no denying the fact that Saudi Arabia lags far behind in some indices – especially the gender ones. Manal Al-Shariff is an exception, but the rule is the problem. Dot sa is the only country to score a zero in female political empowerment – not only can a woman not drive alone, she must always be under male protection – father, husband, son – must always wear a niqab, must get permission to study, to hold a job, to travel. And she cannot vote. This, despite the fact that most women here are educated. If they do take up a job, they are paid much less than their male counterparts. As I watch the people in the office – easy, confident, mixing easily – I wonder to what extent they are deviant from the rest of the society. Not an easy question to answer in any modern society.

It’s a curious thing that everyone seems unsure of what’s allowed and what’s not. I have my Nikon camera with me and I am keen to shoot the Arabic merchant signs. Perhaps I can write a bit about modern Arabic typography – a roadside view, literally. When I ask around though, people caution me. Make sure you don’t shoot any government buildings. Don’t shoot with people in them. Better not to take more than one photo of a place. Don’t point the camera at the King’s pictures. I don’t know whether this is all caution or paranoia. I don’t get time to visit the souks and other public places, where things might be more relaxed. I end up not taking a single picture.

Morning news tells me the king and his delegation have been welcomed by the prince. In another photo,  the king is consoling a boy whose sister was killed.

There is more coverage of the protests popping up across the middle east – 25 children among the dead in Yemen, many hundreds dead (according to the opposition) in Syria. The Arab Spring seems to be blooming in bright red. I get a glimpse of the Saudi mind too – parents banning children from discussing politics, or carefully allowing a limited discussion inside the house. ‘My son is too young to understand politics’ frets a father whose son is 21.

At about ten in the night, I hear the wail of sirens. Sometimes punctuated by air blasts that sound like a passing ship. Ten minutes later I still hear them. Not just passing emergency vehicles. I draw the curtains aside and look out. I am astonished to see thick coils of black smoke rising about fifty feet away. I can’t get a good view, but I see the tips of orange fires licking into view. I open the door and there’s no one there. I make sure my passport, money and tickets are close at hand (just in case). When I go down to the lobby and out, it’s chaos out there. Fire brigade tenders, police cars, ladder trucks, wailing sirens, flashing roof lights. Some of the locals are directing the traffic – helping cars clear out and making way for the fire tenders. Already there are more than a 100 people, some shooting with their phone cameras. Two tenders blast jets of water into the burning building – some kind of commercial establishment. Now there is no fire but smoke continues to billow out thick. It’s under control, looks like no one is hurt.       

It’s the last day. I look out the window and see the wall facing me is completely black with soot – the windows are burnt holes. I don’t see it in the papers though.

It’s just an hour before the checkout time. I want to buy a few things. I have already bought dates soaking in something or the other. What else? Middle east is known for dry fruits, I think. So I decide to buy the mix – kaaju, kismis, pista, badam. At Matjar Al Mushtalek (The Mushtalek market), the first shop fellow emphatically says ‘no English, Arabbi’. Then many fingers point to a tall fellow in white. I assume he speaks English. I tell the tall fellow in white I am looking for cashews – he jabs back at me in Arabic, uncomprehending. I try again - like, nuts? dry fruits? mixed? –now I am acting out ‘mixed’. He just repeats what I say – kaasyuus? I am thinking, how to make him understand I am looking for kaaju? Then, he catches the fruits in dry fruits – ok, ok come - and leads me to apples and oranges. No no, I don’t mean these fruit. I see a distinguished looking Arab gentleman with his family. Excuse me, sir… do you speak English? Yes, I do, Hamdullah. I am looking for cashew nuts and he is unable to understand me. Could you please translate for me? In the meanwhile, the shop fellow has vanished amongst rows of chocolate. The Arab gentleman tells me to use the Arabic word for cashew – then he tells me the word is kaaju. I feel like laughing and kicking myself.

I also realize I have heard people say Hamdullah many times before – on the phone, talking to each other. I am intrigued. Later, I find that Hamdullah means ‘praise be to God’. It’s a self-effacing thing, like saying it’s all God’s grace. Something tells me the names Hamad and Hamid are related to that meaning. Will look up another day.

It had to happen. The Pakistani driver who takes me to the airport reminisces about his town near Karachi and talks about his family divided by the ‘batwaara’ (partition). We talk about how it must have been a terrible time for both countries. He talks about how he hosts many Indian guests, mainly from Punjab, who come to Pakistan to visit friends and relatives. I am thinking about how wonderful each and every one of these Pakistani drivers have been to us – easy mannered, respectful and with a sense of ‘us’ that made you feel at home. I also remember the driver who, two days ago, drove us four kilometers beyond the hotel because we were looking for an Indian restaurant – and refused to take anything extra  for it.

This time, I insist on paying a bit extra. Shukriya.

3.00 am, Dubai airport. The distinctively Arab feel of the Jeddah airport is absent here. Dubai is much more cosmopolitan and it’s a hub – Connecting the World, as they proudly proclaim. As I sit against the chrome pillar and wait, I watch knots of people crossing my path, some slow and careful, some in a hurry, some posing in front of the plants and taking photos. It’s a bit like watching different herds visiting the watering hole. A big Korean (I think) group walks fast talking and joking loudly. Some look at me with idle curiosity - me sitting on the floor with my notebook open. Then a bunch of yuppies. Then a traditional Muslim family, Pakistanis - going by the Shalwar Kameez – man in the front pushing the luggage, then the girl with a bag, and then the woman. Then comes a lone Indian man with a big bag. He is dressed simply in slacks and trousers. He looks about 70 and he is making his way carefully, looking a little unsure of himself, reading the signs. Perhaps he is visiting his son who works with an IT giant in the Valley. May be it’s his daughter who finally convinced him to visit them – local Indian friends, may be a temple not too far away, a special subscription to Indian TV channels so he won’t get bored alone at home. A very big group in colorful niqabs pass me. Their faces and language are distinctly far eastern – Malaysian? Indonesian? Really it’s a hub. Connecting the World sums it up.

One more flight to go – Dubai to Bangalore. I am already through gate no. 204 and heading down the escalator into the holding area. As my eyes come to level, I see that the whole area is jam packed with brown faces. Loud voices and squealing children, many tongues. A matriarch is distributing dry rotlas to her kin. Another family is emptying a bag methodically on the floor, looking for something. Someone is speaking Telugu with a distinct Bangalore accent.

I am on the home stretch now.

Hamdullah!