Next Indian Ocean cyclone to be called Bandu

New Delhi, May 20 (IANS) It might not be known when the next cyclone will hit the northern Indian Ocean, but what is already known is its name - Bandu, an official said Thursday.

Cyclones derive their names through a systematic procedure laid down by the World Meteorological Organisation (WMO) and the United Nations Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific (ESCAP).

Cyclone Laila, which developed in the Indian Ocean off the Andhra Pradesh coast creating much havoc in the state, was named by Pakistan. The next to hit countries in the north Indian Ocean region will be called Bandu - a name given by Sri Lanka, and the one after that will be Phet, named by Thailand.

Eight north Indian Ocean countries - Bangladesh, India, the Maldives, Myanmar, Oman, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Thailand - have prepared a list of 64 names.

'We give identity to the cyclones as per the list finalised by the WMO,' M. Mahopatra, director of the cyclone division of the India Meteorological Department (IMD), told IANS.

'The practice of naming storms (tropical cyclones) began years ago to help in their quick identification while issuing warnings because names are presumed to be far easier to remember than numbers or technical terms,' Mahopatra explained.

'When a hurricane hits these countries, the Regional Specialised Meteorological Centre (RSMC), housed in the IMD office in New Delhi, picks up the name next on the list. The RSMC has been set up by the WMO for forecasting tropical cyclones in the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal,' he said.

The countries take turns in naming the cyclones. The last six were: Nisha (Bangladesh), Bijli (India), Aila (Maldives), Phyan (Myanmar), Ward (Oman) and the most recent being Laila (Pakistan). Local names are used for cyclones to make it convenient for use.

In the 1970s, the WMO in Geneva asked some countries around the Pacific Ocean to prepare a list of names. The decision to name the cyclones in the Indian Ocean was taken at a meeting of WMO/ESCAP in 2000.

Now, Al Qaeda develops 'boob-job bombs' which are impossible to detect

London, Mar. 24 (ANI): Al Qaeda is laying deadly "booby traps" by equipping its female suicide bombers with explosive breast implants that are impossible to be detected at airport security checkpoints, British intelligence agency, MI5, has claimed.

"Women suicide bombers recruited by al-Qaeda are known to have had the explosives inserted in their breasts under techniques similar to breast enhancing surgery," The Sun quoted Terrorist expert Joseph Farah, as saying.

The lethal explosives called PETN are inserted inside plastic shapes during the operation, before the breast is then sewn up, he added.

According to MI5, Al Qaeda doctors have been trained at some of Britain's leading teaching hospitals before returning to their own countries to perform the surgical procedures.

The intelligence agency has also discovered that extremists are inserting the explosives into the buttocks of some male suicide bombers.

Top surgeons have confirmed the feasibility of the explosive implants.

"Properly inserted the implant would be virtually impossible to detect by the usual airport scanning machines," one surgeon said.

"You would need to subject a suspect to a sophisticated X-ray. Given that the explosive would be inserted in a sealed plastic sachet, and would be a small amount, would make it all the more impossible to spot it with the usual body scanner," he added.

A sachet containing as little as five ounces of PETN could blow "a considerable hole" in an airline's skin, causing it to crash, experts say.

Hours after London-educated Nigerian Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab's Christmas Day flight bombing bid, MI5 began to pick up "chatter" emanating from Pakistan and Yemen that alerted MI5 to the creation of the lethal implants, the paper says.

A hand-picked team investigated the threat which was described as "one that can circumvent our defence," it adds. (ANI)

Sachin is more than just a cricketer

Sachin Tendulkar sugar coated the recent reality of India and gave its people something to cheer about. It is not easy to possess the mandate to lift the spirits of such a large nation but he has done that consistently. The comparison with Sir Donald Bradman is not restricted to his batting alone. Like the great man who brought cheer to post war Australia, Tendulkar allowed India to momentarily forget fires and bombs and inflation and terrorist threats.

It was like that with the century after England so graciously agreed to tour after 26/11. It has been like that for a long time. For better or worse cricket is more than a sport in India; Tendulkar is more than just a cricketer. Where our elected representatives callously fritter away the mandate people give them, Tendulkar has stayed true to it.

And he has never forgotten why he started playing the game in the first place. The best have lofty ambitions when they begin but soon commerce, like a tenacious worm, gnaws into them. Fame surrounds them and prevents the fresh air of reason from breaking through. They acquire sycophants, that great curse of success.

Playing the game becomes a means to a seemingly superior but, in reality, a hollower end. Tendulkar has kept those demons at bay. He has made more money than anyone else, acquired greater fame than is imaginable but you could never guess that from the way he plays his cricket. He remains the servant, pursues the game with purity. Through the last decade India have been well served by like minded giants.

And he works as hard as anybody has. Lance Armstrong once said that he wins the Tour de France not when he is cycling down the Champs-Elysees but when he is out in the mountains facing icy winds while others are cozying in their blankets for an extra hour.

Two years ago Tendulkar realised that his future lay in the way his body coped; that eventually his body rather than a bowler would get him. During the first IPL, as he struggled with his groin injury, he admitted that he found continuous rehab very difficult to live with.

Once fit, he was like the child again, able to do what he wanted without worrying about whether his body was accomplice or traitor. And so he trained harder and rested well. You could see the effect as he scampered between wickets. Tendulkar's delightful second wind is the result of what you and I have not seen; hours in the gym and in training.

As a result, Tendulkar's end game is nowhere in sight. He is peeling off centuries like he did in his prime, the old air of predictability is still around; he is grinding his way through when needed, clobbering the ball when required. In this extraordinary long distance race he is running, this looks like a mid-race burst rather than like the finishing kick his age suggests it should be.

So why has no one else scored a double century in limited overs cricket so far? Well, because it is very difficult for a start. Assuming 300 balls you should expect to get no more than 150 which means you need to bat at a strike rate of 133; you should be mentally alert because one casual shot, one moment of disrespect, could be your undoing.

But, let's admit, because the combination of pitches, outfields and boundary ropes has rarely tilted the balance so much in the batsman's favour. At Gwalior, the groundsman told one half of the class they were not wanted; the bowlers were the extras in a movie seeking, at best, a talking part. The stage had been prepared for Tendulkar but he still had to deliver an unforgettable performance.

Inevitably the question will be asked: what next? I know there is only thing he genuinely covets and that is not in his hands. In twelve months Tendulkar hopes to play his sixth and last World Cup.

So far his relationship with the World Cup has been like that of a child who scurries to the rosogulla shop only to find it shut everytime. If he was a golfer seeking a Masters win or a tennis player hoping to win another Grand Slam, he could plan for it but he doesn't hold the key to a win in a team sport. It must happen, he cannot make it happen. But what else? Frankly, I don't care.

Tendulkar's journey is about joy and purity and a landmark is merely a comfort stop.

Harsha Bhogle

The Lord of the Willow...

Prefer to leave it blank, he can't be put into words...but this space dedicated to him...I love you !

2008-2009, the decade that changed the world...

On a warm blue September day in 2001, Mohammed Atta, an Egyptian architect from Germany, forced his way into the cockpit of American Airlines Flight 11 bound for San Francisco, flew it into the World Trade Center Tower 1 and changed everything. No hostages, No released prisoners, no cash, just this humble Al Qaeda goal: The destruction of free liberal Western democracy as we know it.

With the idea unleashed, the decade saw reproductions. India's Parliament in 2001, the Madrid train bombings in 2002, the London transport system in 2004, the Sharm Al-Sheikh hotel attacks in 2005, the Bali nightclub bombings in 2005, Mumbai 26/11/08.

Till the end of the 1990s, people saw terrorists as holding innocent people to bargain for something. The last decade has shown us the willingness of cosmopolitan, educated young, moneyed people using the Internet revolution that's happened in parallel, to be taken in by the appeal of martyrdom and spectacularly kill themselves for Osama Bin Laden.

The world scrambled to react. America led the excitement with the catch phrase, "War Against Terror" and the clear declaration, "Either you're with us or against us". "We're with you", India shouted, "We've known terrorism almost daily, now you know what it feels like to be us" and other such brotherhood ideas were loudly proclaimed. The Americans weren't listening and didn't care. The only time America did say, "What's going on here?" was in December of 2001, when some Lashkar people showed up in jeeps to blow up our Parliament and we said we might go to war.

As the decade rolled on, there were surprises, disappointments, optimism, shame, joy, elation and apologies, but none predictable. The sudden rise (and complete domination of) the Congress party from a position of relative weakness made pundits look foolish and made the BJP's India Shining slogan work against them as India shone essentially to, and for, the Congress.

Even though an economic rise was guessed, 8 per cent GDP or thereabouts as Europe shrunk, elated us and generated a lot of chat about the rise of a new India and its consuming power. A young nation gained confidence from earning and spending much sooner than their parents did, call centre jobs and a visit from President Bush ("We love you" our prime minister said).

And the poster child of this new India, certainly post elections, was Rahul Gandhi, proving his dexterity at balancing convoluted patriarchal alliances with new-age consultant thinking, all the while carrying his charm with the good looks of a Turkish lothario.

Some things came as no surprise: politicians held up bags of money in Parliament exposing bribes they said were offered to switch affiliation. This came some years after a news organisation held covert operations (coined "sting" to sound forceful I suppose) to expose a shocking new reality. Politicians caught on camera taking bribes in suitcases.

A large debate ensued about the venal and barbaric nature of the elected corrupt while those accused defended themselves by

a) claiming they were set up,

b) threatening and shutting down the news organisation in question or

c) trying to slither out through petty detail loopholes.

To the public, there was never any debate on whether our elected officials take bribes. It was certainty. What we refer to as everyday. The only sting operation that would have indeed shocked the people was if our politicians didn't take a bribe.

Later, a news channel did another sting operation exposing the movie actor Shakti Kapoor asking for sexual favours in return for giving a young lady a film role thereby starting a debate on Bollywood's casting couch. Again, the only shock for the nation here was that Shakti Kapoor sleeps with women.

Any highlight of these past 10 years would be incomplete without mentioning last year's events in Mumbai. Arguably, the logic and procedure had antecedents across the world and, therefore, it should have been no shock when men in their 20s with guns and backpacks showed up to kill and die.

Yet it was. Beyond of course, the shock of what they did was the shock of who we were. A crumbling city with inadequate security, a foolish elite incapable of erudite opinion, an intelligentsia with no political voice, an elite paralysed in its own elitism. This decade showed we needed to wake up, even if we had no idea what the hell to, where to go or what to ask for.

Post 26/11, much anger was aimed at politicians again. This time, I'd argue, misdirected. The urban public needed a target and they were the easiest. Foolish generalisations like they are all corrupt and thieves and criminals were really ways for the public to vent, forgetting that in a multiparty democracy, we had elected these very same people by large majorities.

And could throw them out. It wasn't an us versus them because they were us, just those of us we had put in power. Once the anger subsided and ridiculous attempts at civic action from clusters of posh people died down, everybody went about their business of not voting and not caring. The tragedy and the small burst of shouting that followed did help the politicians in realising that they need to occasionally care or sound like they do, so words like "good governance" and "public accountability" became the mantras of the most recent campaigns.

The interesting analysis post 26/11 that angered the media (and subsequently, the public) was how much was spent on security for a handful of VIPs while our biggest cities lay exposed to any kind of assault. One television channel asked a perturbed Murli Manohar Joshi as he walked in with his melange of black cats, "Sir, who is paying for this?"

This decade also woke up the other end of the economic spectrum, the poorest of the poor, and not in a good way. They'd had just about enough with the India of fashion shows and DLF SEZs and zipping Mercedes. They wrote a manifesto about armed revolution, called themselves Naxals, revived a dead 70s student protest ideology and took to killing policemen and stopping trains in the deep interiors.

One party that simply by fiery speeches and obstructing regular life gained attention and political legitimacy was the MNS, with an agenda against migrants to Mumbai, especially those from Uttar Pradesh. In a country otherwise economically powering ahead with attempts at decent government, improving infrastructure, progressive secular and liberal economic ideas with a middle class that aspired to a better life, one wondered where the MNS ideas came from.

And who voted for the mandate. As the TV debates between supposed urban intelligentsia essentially became noise and screaming matches, the MNS quietly got the votes to become a party to reckon with. We realised the only thing more worrying than an agenda of malice or absent security, was us.

On a less sombre note, Shashi Tharoor, our erudite world ambassador with the foppish Oxonian Merchant Ivory charm brought the proper British accent back to Parliament reminding us that the Raj did not die; it just moved to the External Affairs Ministry and posed on the cover of GQ.

We also found out Kapil Sibal, Cabinet minister, wrote poems (on his cellphone on long flights, like a frequent flying T.S. Eliot) whose literary merits were debated on national television. The main curiosity this aroused was what other Renaissance talents were there in the upper echelons of our ruling party? Maybe our finance minister Pranab Mukherjee was a ludo champion or our home minister P. Chidambaram made world famous lemon pudding?

So there you have it. The era that changed our lives, in brief. Winston Churchill had once said, "Indian politics is lunacy trying to reach its full potential." This decade, we came close.

He & She, an unfinished tale !

She came. He did not say a no, but was definitely worried how to tackle a growing girl. She was eighteen, he was twenty seven. Their relation remained undefined. They never tried to put it in mere words. They were happy, they weren’t confined.
She was a bright and vibrant Bong teen. She was good in her academics, extra as well as co-curricular. She won over hearts wherever she went. She thought she displayed dual nature…She loved the latest gadgets and gizmos, kept track of latest in cricket, hummed American numbers, she also loved the mountains, the Himalayas, the brooks down the hills, the reddened peaks in bright sunlight, the silvery snowcaps in the moonlight, the mountain tunes and dialects. She read the latest by Stephen Hawkings, the contemporary IT centric stories by Chetan Bhagat, also read Tagore and the Atharva Veda for its mystery basically chemistry. She was a juxtaposition of realms. Everybody loved her yet she loved very few – herself, her parents and nobody knew this but her God.
He was a hardworking lad, who knew nothing but work, work and only work. He was what one calls a successful IT personnel changing from Hewlett Packard to Microsoft. He had no mother, only a father whom he loved, admired and respected. He lived in an all equipped apartment in a posh Bangalore locality, was all given to his profession. He had a zeal, a zeal to reach the top, not stop and search for something higher than the highest. This took him forward. No girls in his life so far, no serious ones that is what he said. He was considered quite handsome, a man of attitude and he looked as good as a young Richard Gere in a two piece jet black tuxedo !
She had to leave the city of joy and move into the city of opportunities, future beckoned. She had a dream to fulfill. She was all lost in the new city of which she had read lots and dreamt hard of being in. She knew no one but one. Its he she knew for the past 2 years. She had met him in a crowed yahoo chat room. From there onwards all that happened between the both of them – numerous emails, few yahoo chats, pretty many smses n 3 phone calls. In Bangalore she gave him a call.
They met for a few times, she was staying in the girl’s hostel. Then came the all important moment, she moved in to live with him. Her higher education was on bank load and she still had further studies to do, to some extent there were financial causes behind her decision to move in, the rest remains unknown, perhaps they knew.
He was eager to help her in every possible way but couldn’t mould himself into this new situation so suddenly so kept a little constricted. But it was an innate quality in her, she made him her everything. She gave him the feeling that she felt comfortable in there in his three room flat, he settled in as well. She was working three nights a week in a BPO which paid her good. He was a rich dude that is sure but never let his money stink. It was going good for the both of them.
They hardly slept. He had work, she had her job and on nights when she did not go to the BPO she had college work to complete. They were busy bees – jobs, college and a tiny family of two heads. She didn’t know how to cook, their fooding habits were vastly different yet they managed quite well with a lion’s share of instant coffees, 2 minute maggis, fruit juices and pizza’s for sure.
However late she slept, she got up latest by 5.30am every single day. She took a bath before heading to make breakfast. Now this early morning shower had a great significance. She believed it washed off all the weariness of her previous day and prepared her to start afresh. She preferred water which was cold, shampooed her hair everyday, conditioned it, played with the soap bubbles, splashed water at an imaginary him, hummed continuously, sometimes bollywood numbers, sometime earthly rustic tunes, sometimes songs from the great man Tagore, sometimes English numbers… She stretched her arms as is dancing in a ball imagining he was dancing with her. She imagined him splashing water at her, as the shower did its job. All this when she perfectly knew that he was fast asleep in the next room.
But…
He stood right there, the door separating both of them. He woke up everyday, standing infront of the closed door, listening to her singing. She was a perfect singer, her voice different from all others he had heard before. There was something in it, as soon as he heard her sing, he could almost see the gleam in her eyes, her wet hair on her bare shoulder. Her voice mingled with the strong aroma of the shampoo created an aura he could have never imagined of before, one staunchly of feminine presence. He could make out if she hummed English numbers, but sometimes it was all greek, he knew it was ‘bengalee’…He had a strange feeling, he felt she was signing for him. He missed a lot about her when he is away for work but this part is what he missed most. When she put of the shower, the sound of the water splashing receded….he went straight back to bed pretending t o have just gotten up. She never found out that her songs never remained unheard !
He liked a lot about her. Perhaps for this reason their staying together was frictionless. He lost his mother at a tender age, he hardly had ever felt the feminine softness. But all of a sudden he was kind of mesmerized by her presence. This is crazy but the first thing he noticed about her were her nails. They weren’t coloured but they were long and well shaped with the extended portion perfectly white. There was something crazily refreshing about them, she never cared how they were…she had short hair, not straight, not curly, a perfect mingling of both. She wasn’t slim, she never wanted to be. She had a slight dimple on her left cheek. She was fair. In totality she was beautiful but most prominently she was different and never spent hours in front of the mirror. Whatever she wore she looked elegant in it. Her simplicity was her charm he thought. She had her values intact, she didn’t preached those, just followed silently. Being with her wasn’t a bore even for a millisecond, she could cheer you up always…She valued money…but no ones perfect isn’t it?...She lacked patience. If one paper went bad she would go on bothering him about it, apprehensive of the low marks it would fetch. She always wanted to do the best and do it in the shortest possible time.
She never believed in the fact that a girl needs someone to cling to. She took this living together a s a surprisingly refreshing break from her more or less single status. Though she knew this was transient, they would move on, separately…she didn’t want that moment to come. They were walking lonely roads, suddenly happened to meet each other and decided to make their roads meet. She made every relation out of him, she would keep her informed bout her marks…in Kolkata she kept her dad informed. He would be the first person to know if a guy in college asked her out. She knew not what to do when he came home dehydrated or with slight temperature, but tried out whatever silly stuff she could. Can’t say if it cured him but he forgot about the illness totally ! She loved to make coffee for him, that is what she could…mixing Nescafe cappuccino and hot steaming milk in his favourite coffee mug. On Saturdays, during her breaks, especially if the weather was cloudy she put on tender numbers and served cotffee on bed, he got up and at once knew that the day was going to be great.
He had never known that rains could be so great an experience. All that he did on a rainy day was to grumble that he missed a chunk of his important meetings because of these idiotic rains. But now he craves for a long rainy season in Bangalore because rains made her extremely happy. Previously he cursed the makers of his apartment for keeping an open air balcony because the rain water seeped through into the rooms but now he wanted the entire apartment to have an open and close roof. Occasional rains made her day, especially if it rained in the evening and she didn’t not have the BPO to go to, she at once made a call and asked him to drop home cause she was planning to fry pakoras.
“You are the new Chief Programming Analyst”, said the Boss. He didn’t actually know how he could measure his happiness, if there was an instrument it would shoot out of its limits. But he at once knew what he badly wanted to do, call her and tell her about the good news and what it in turn meant. “Yup, tell me”, came her voice from the other end of the phone. “I did it. I’m flying.”, told he. “Congratulations, I’m proud of you my boy”, she teased. He so loved the way she said that…he wanted to come home, hug her tight. He jumped into his car, stopped by at some restaurant to pack some food n drinks for the night, also brought her favorite flowers, with them she made his house home…and he drove as fast as he could to reach home. Up the stairs, doorbell !...No one answered. He craved to see that beaming face of hers. “Open the door”, his heart shouted silently. No one answered. He took his set of keys out, got in, she was not there, some of her things were missing too. He found a note on the table saying “He and She, an Unfinished Tale !”. Suddenly a thousand realizations started rushing into his mind. He would fly to New Orleans, where would she stay if he left this apartment…She had joined her job newly just fresh recruitments from the college campus, was a 2 year contract…She had to be here…He never asked her to fly with him, but he knew he badly wanted her too, he had never thought of this moment before…always thought let it come then…
He was onboard his flight to New Orleans. Lunch was served. He hardly ate. The thought of her leaving so suddenly bothered him, pricked him every moment. In the excitement of it all, he had managed to forget she lived and loved him. She took herself away, so that he could go ahead, be the man he wants to be…but he needed her badly. He put his hand inside his pocket to find that note, that handwriting he loved…
Perhaps he wanted to go back.

Where The Mind is Without Fear

WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

- Rabindranath Tagore, a visionary he was !