Woods are lovely...

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost

Actually, Atul's witty comments on his facebook www.facebook.com/atulsondhi using Robert Frost's 'woods are lovely ...' transported me back to my school days wherein I was exposed to Robert Frost.

If my memory serves me right, it was the dhoti-clad, moustacheless and clean-shaven Assistant Headmaster K Ramasubramaniam (KRS as he used to be called) in his mid-30s who used to teach English in his gruff voice.

Robert Frost, incidentally, was India's first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru's favourite poem.

Though never exposed to any snow-filled forests in the late 1960s and early 1970s while living in Chennai (then called Madras, the southernmost city of India), I had chance to live through such places in 1990s - on visits to Simla, Kulu, Manali with family.

It was a painful experience bearing that numbing icy feeling all through your body.

I am digging my digital photo ghazana to feret out those Manali experiences.

Thanks Atul for walking me down the memory lane.

What's life without memories.

Julie - the 1995 Classic!

For several months, I have been toying with the idea of syncing my ipod from my laptop. Every now and then, the laptop has to undergo 'formating' and in the process the itune library on it automatically gets wiped out. Of late, have become lazy and stopped reloading from my 80 GB Seagate removable hard disc.

Today, I have made up my mind to sync, come what may. The whole exercise took close to an hour. Worth it, I tell you.

Soon, I checked out songs under the 'composers' category and found Rakesh Roshan link. Clicked and bingo... there was just one song from Julie - the 1975 classic. Naturally, I played once. Floored indeed. Julie was orignially made in Malayalam under the title, "Chattakari" (Anglo-Indians in the south are referred like that becoz even married women wear skirts. Traditional hindu women - post-puberty don't those days! I did not se the Malayalam version, but saw the Hindi version. The versatile Lakshmi in the title role with Vikram (never seen him subsequently in any worthwhile movie) as her lover boy. And Sridevi - yet to make a mark as heroine material those days - as Lakshmi's younger sister. K S Sethumadhavan's movie it was.

The music was phenomenal. Rajesh Roshan composed it. Remarkable rhythm. Hummable even today.

I was in the final year of Economics degree when it was released in Chennai. Was it Little Anand where I saw it? Can't recollect. The music was a rage. Dil Kya Kare, sung by Kishoreda, was a big hit. We don't get to hear those type of songs these days. Roshan is an excellent composer. Don't know why he does not compose for others outside his family productions (Hrithik Roshan's uncle he is).

I am a great fan of him. It was the first time, Lakshmi sported skirt in a movie!

Believe it or not, I looped the song and must have heard 20 times this afternoon.

Out of curiosity, googled 'Julie" and landed with Neha Dhupia's 2005 movie with the same name. Sexy poster, no doubt. Check out on google/yahoo images. Then rephrased 'Julie Lakshmi Vikram' and then got the billboard that you see in this blog.

Though other songs were equally good, am unable to recollect at this moment.

Good Morning,Muscat!-2

Re-entering Muscat after a gap of a little over 100 days is a bit like home coming. The aircraft touches and taxis down the tarmac to halt near the arrival lounge. A Corbus picks you up for the short ride where one enters the quiet visa/immigration enclosure. Not like Dubai where there are over 50 odd counters on a spacious hall spread over precious real estate. Nor even like Bahrain which again is larger than Muscat, but comparatively smaller than Dubai. That’s the ‘big difference’ in terms of arrival lounge area!

Following the swine flu threat, there are non-invasive electronic spotters to check body temperature in many airports. Muscat is no exception. One walks up to the pre-booked visa counter to join the sparse crowd. A young Omani woman officer deftly handles the issuance before one proceeds to the immigration counter that is properly regulated by Omani men. Here again, the crowd is thin because there is just one flight landed with less than 50 passengers from Bahrain – which includes me as well.

In no time, one thanks the officials and exit. Usually, this is the time I switch on my mobile with Omani GSM card and invariably receive a call or notice a missed call from Yusuf, who used to pick me up from airport over the past 4 years almost every month. This time around, that exercise is not executed because I no longer work for the same outfit and secondly I had exited Oman three months ago and did not retain any Omani mobile number. Another routine is to pick up few goodies at the duty free shop. I did not this time because I have no Omani currency. For the first time over the past four years, I silently reach the baggage claim area without entering the Duty Free Shop. I regret later, for a variety of reasons!

After collecting my baggage and getting through x-ray scanner, I come in the arrival lounge where receivers anxiously hang around the foyer. Again sparsely crowded. I look around for a British female whom I never met, but told to look out for. Emily Mathews is the name and she is my colleague in the new outfit where I will join this time. I notice a foreigner in pink apparel and enquiries, “are you Emily?” and receive a negative response. Suddenly notice another familiar face and a Brit girl. We wave at each other. “Meet Emily,” he says. Well, we met by now.

A sleek four wheeler carts me into Muscat’s Wednesday evening traffic. The weather is fine. No sign of any unbearable heat associated with August. Familiar sites glide past on both sides: Zubair showrooms, the Grand Mosque, Centre Point etc. Visit the office in Al Khuwair and then move to the guest house in the same area.

Penthouse bed & breakfast arrangement. Dump my stuff and step into the balcony. The view is panoramic. Mountains on one side and sea on the other. It’s night and nothing is clearly visible except lights all around and traffic 10 stories below. Eyelids threaten to shut down due to physical exhaustion. I see off my hosts-turned-guests and crash out with a promise to the Filipino housekeeper Leena that I would prefer a hot glass of milk at 9 p.m. I look at the watch showing 7.43 p.m. Close to 75 minutes nap bargained for. Let me crash quickly. I switch off lights and hit the bed.

Don’t know what happened. Perhaps the central air conditioner is extra cool. I woke up and got out of bed. Picked up the mobile to check out time. The digital clock reads: 02.17 a.m. What happened to my 9 p.m. milk? Not served perhaps. Or Leena could not reach out at the appointed hour. I step into the balcony with my Sony handycam and begin clicking pictures. The first shot was that of Muscat Municipal Corporation garbage van dumping the contents of roadside stationary garbage boxes into its maw. After a few more shots, re-enter my room. Should I step out for a morning walk, I debate, but give up quickly. Switch off light and hit the bed again to get into the clutches of Dame Sleep. Ready to snooze again. Bye.

Good Morning, Muscat!-1

Honestly I had no intention to reach Muscat via Bahrain. Tell me, why should when one has the option to fly direct Delhi-Muscat? Nonethless, when family friend-cum-travel agent Joginder suggested I fly Gulf Air, my immediate reaction was: what, have they reopened the Delhi-Muscat direct route again? Because they use to fly that way until two years ago – that is before the Sultanate of Oman pulled out of Gulf Air, a big time joint venture in the middle east involving UAE, Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Oman and Bahrain. Oman was the last to delink from Gulf Air. And I was a frequent flier on that route those days. Nostalgic, no doubt.

Joginder’s ‘no’ disappointed me a bit. I had to transit at Bahrain for a quick connecting flight to Muscat, a 100 minute hop. Instead of less than three direct Delhi-Muscat passage, I opted for a longer journey and chance to touch Bahrain after three years and explore Gulf Air hospitality! Plus the added advantage of paying approximately RO 10 less than if I opt for direct Oman Air flight to Muscat.

But I did not anticipate what rolled out ultimately. As per original schedule, GF 131 Delhi-Bahrain aircraft arrived late by an hour and hence departure was delayed by that amount of time. By the time, it landed at Bahrain airport, expectedly the connecting flight had departed already. What next? I had to cool my heels at the half-empty airport terminal for five hours for the next Muscat flight. The fat lady near the Transfer counter- working for Gulf Air – was impolite to the core. Several passengers missed their connecting flight to various destinations. One Arabic lady had missed her connecting flight to Athens. Wearing traditional abaya and hijab, she reprimanded the Gulf Air bully in flawless English. “Why should we passengers suffer because of Gulf Air’s inefficiency?” she demanded to know. Answers were none.

I asked for a complaint book and was handed over a Customer Feedback form. Meanwhile, she gave me a boarding pass for 3 p.m. Gulf Air flight (GF 550) to Muscat. I looked at the watch. It read: 9.45 a.m. Ohmigod! Five hours to kill. “What am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Go and get yourself a free lunch at the four floor restaurant,” the Gulf Air lady responded gruffly. “What lunch? I want to reach Muscat a.s.a.p.” Can’t help was the smileless response. I expected a smiling and conciliatory tone. Not that ‘you-are-my-enemy’ countenance and bad behaviour. So much for Customer Service in Bahrain – the home base of Gulf Air.

Wait. This is not the end. I wrote my complaint and wanted to meet the Gulf Air officials in the airport. There was none expect the ‘gruff’ lady and another bespectacled middle aged gentleman – he was silent, but attending to other irate passengers. If I want to meet someone in Gulf Air, I need to exit the airport. Look, the airlines had committed a mistake and I am being penalized by unfriendly Gulf Air staff.

How to kill time? I loitered in the airport departure lobby – sparsely littered with Haj pilgrimages awaiting their Saudi connecting flight. Duty Free Shops were almost empty. Even McD was. Mind you, there is never any shortage of flights. Many were taking off at regular intervals. It is obvious, there is less traffic, courtesy recession. Bought a novel by a Lebanese author translated into English, picked up a few magazines at the bookstall, a packet of assorted lozenses and a Sprite can.

Scouting for a quiet corner to engage myself in reading turned out to be an easy affair, because airport was half empty. In the past trips, I had invariably failed. This time, I was lucky. Also procured a satchel of roasted and salted groundnuts. They were large in size compared to the Indian ones. Thankfully, the book was engrossing from the very first sentence. After a while, I felt a chillness. It is August. Peak summer. Of course, the central air-conditioner is on. If there is crowd, it absorbs the chillness. But the sparsely populated airport terminal added to my discomfort. Can’t do a thing. So walked from one end to another to keep warm.

Around 1 p.m., felt pangs of hunger. How about the promised free lunch at Gulf Air’s expense? First I need to find the restaurant that would provide free eat. I walked up to one of the nearby Bahrain Airport Services staff who politely directed me to the ‘other end’. I ambled across and found a Gulf Air First/Business Class Lounge signage. I escalatored to the higher plane where I was greeted by another fat Gulf Air lady behind a counter. Rather I greeted her. She was equally glum like her female counterpart near the Transfer Desk Gulf Air counter. I enquired about my lunch after showing her boarding pass with some code enscribed indicating ‘free lunch’. “This is First/Business Class Lounge. Not a free lunch counter,” she responded. When asked for directions to the correct location of ‘free lunch”, she stood up to tell me, ‘ask the information counter’ somewhere in the down lobby and walked away. “Why you Gulf Air staffers are so rude?” I asked her before she left. She just ignored me.

After climbing down to the departure lobby, I approached the information counter. One of the three attending the counter, patiently listened to my query and then called out another Indian sub-staff and asked him to show me the directions. In the next two minutes I was sitting inside the Skybar restaurant after properly guided by the non-Gulf Air staffers. Thank you, guys! Poor customer service is the most unpardonable sin in the service sector. Gulf Air is still in the process of learning. Buck up, quickly. Customers are merciless. One bad experience, they will never ever come to do business with shoddy service provider.

I am not nitpicking. I had a pleasant experience at the Delhi Gulf Air counter. I had checked in and was walking towards immigration. A lady stopped me mid way and said, “Sir, we wish to upgrade you to Business Class”. I did not ask why because this is not my first experience of such upgrades. Instead of wasting a perishable empty passenger seat in Business Class, why not gain some goodwill from some frequent flier in that sector is the logic. I thanked and accepted the Business Class Boarding Pass. Not all Gulf Air employees are insensitive. The service was good on the Delhi-Bahrain sector. So was the food. Now I am waiting for some response to my complaint wherein I had given my Indian phone number and email id at the Gulf Air counter in Bahrain.

Good Morning, Dubai!-7

It was an eventful weekend. First, I am not used to spending two days away from office. Last time I had the luxury of two-day weekend was two years ago in Bahrain. That time, I had a colleague – Vinod Verma – for company. We used to freak out over the weekend: eat, watch cricket match on tv, booze and party. This time around, I am alone. Habits die hard and I could not kick the practice of waking up early. To that extent, I had more wakeful hours to spend or kill.

Luckily, I had Ali – my neighbour from Pakistan whom you can read about in another separate blog (Good Morning, Dubai!-6) – for early morning company. Then, religiously took up Curveball, the book on how George W Bush mounted the invasion of Iraq purely on the basis of one Iraqi fugitive who had sought asylum in Germany. An interesting book of 360 odd pages. Completed over the weekend, though bought in Muscat a month ago.

The last few pages wherein the US President calls Kay – a think tank wonk – for lunch at White House to know what had gone wrong in his assessment of situation is revealing. It is an apt lesson for leaders how not to get carried by subordinates – particularly those who want to tell the boss what he would like to hear. Reminded of several of my colleagues over the past who screwed up lives just to save their asses.

***
After two hours afternoon nap, decided to venture out on my own. No escorts. Why not try the Dubai Bus? Indeed, why not? It was 6 p.m. and stepped out and reached the nearest bus shelter. Beautiful structure. Reminded me of dugouts set up at IPL venues. Except they are glass-fronted closed set ups with airconditioning. Checked the bus time listing and decided to go to Century Mall/Mamzar. So chose route no.C14.

Though the scheduled arrival was 6.50 p.m, it came 25 minutes late. Stepped in and bought a 2 Dirhams ticket. Thought it would be a short drive for maybe 20-30 minutes. The beautiful bus was meandering through crowded Satwa road, Karama, British Council, Dubai Courts. I was losing patience. When enquired, my fellow passenger said it would take a long time. Maybe 90 minutes.

Ninety minutes inside even an airconditioned bus? No way. Near clock tower – a prominent spot, but can’t figure out where it is located – I simply got out, walked into a nearby Pakistani restaurant (You can't escape running into Pakistani or Filipino in Dubai!) and asked him to guide me back to Jumeira Post Office where I live. He asked me to cross over and take the same C 14 route bus.

Picking up a Diet Pepsi can, I climbed over the overbridge and waited for the bus. For 30 minutes, no sign of any C 14. My watch showed 9.30 p.m. I am in an alien land and have no clue about the topography. No taxi was stopping though I was waving frantically. An unmetered taxi guy approached and asked for 4o Dirhams for the trip back to home. I felt it too was too much. I offered Dh 20.

Before he could react, I spotted an approaching C 14 and entered. But I was asked to step out because I was carrying a Pepsi can. I did not want to throw it out. Again I have to wait for another 20 minutes before the next C 14 came. Paid 2 Dirham and found the Pakistani bearded driver very talkative. Sat in the first row– just a metre away from the front glass panel to enjoy the driver-seat view of the road in front.

After how long I don’t know, the bus halted and everyone trooped out. I also stepped out. But, I had no idea where I was standing. Suddenly found the Pak driver also was missing. One Indian on the road asked me to take C 14 to go to Jumeira Post office. I waited for 10 minutes before I could board another C 14. I told the driver to alert me when Jumeira Post office is reached.

After two halts, he told me to get out which I did and could not locate the Post Office – a landmark I had seen over the past week. It was 11.30 p.m. and I was stranded on the road. Moreover I was hungry. I began walking back towards where I boarded the bus. Then, I decided to take a cab and luckily I found an approaching cab.

Got in and told him to go to Jumeria Post Office. “Are you sure, you want to go Jumeira Post Office?” the old Paksitani driver asked. I said firmly, “yes’. He switched on the meter. “Fasten your belt, sir,” said he. After two minutes, he halted and said, “Sir, here’s Jumeria Post Office.” I did not know whether to cry or laugh.

I paid him 10 dirhams – the minimum fare and got out. The driver called me back and spoke in Hindi. Where in Jumeira Post Office? I showed him the street in front of Post Office. He asked me to climb the cab again and he dropped me in front of my house! “Allah has said that I had to take 10 Dirhams from you this night for such a short distance! I would not have taken this money from you had this been my private taxi. It is metered and I had to give account of this trip. Kindly excuse me, sir!” He stepped out and hugged me.

I entered home and wept loudly. It was close to midnight. Had my oatmeal dinner and hit the sack. The next morning, I stood before the Jumeria Post Office and kicked the ground several times out of frustration. “Swine,” I said in disgust. No, I was not cursing the drivers of the previous night. But my destiny!

Good Morning, Dubai!-6

The first weekend (Fri-Sat) in Dubai. Got up at 6 a.m., skipped usual morning walk becoz I had gone on a long walk last nite. Sort of compensating well in advance in the likelihood of myself waking up late Friday morning. It did happen that way only. Before I could gear up for my morning cuppa, heard a knock on my door and found Mr Ali – my Pakistani mechanical engineer neighbour-cum-houseowner – working in the Ministry of Defence – in his baseball cap requesting me to join him for green tea. Five feet, six inches perhaps. Brown complexion. Living alone while family is in London, claims the UK passport holding Lahorean.

While brushing my teeth, had seen him performing namaaz on the lawns, but did not entertain the thought of being invited for morning tea. He asks me not to wear footwear, but walk on the soft lawns bare-foot. “Good for your feet,” opines the moustache-less, but machoistic middle aged Ali. The grass is soft and velvety and a bit wet from early morning dew. With two cups of piping hot tea and a plateful of badam soaked in water he approaches me at the table set up in one corner. The sun has arisen, but it would take a couple of hours before it is above our head.

After checking out my comfort level with Hindi, he breaks into Pakstani Urdu/Hindi. I like it. It’s different. “Namaaz ek barkaat,” he says. Appears like am watching some Balraj Sahni classics. Honestly, I could not connect with a few words and phrases. But the essence, yes. He tells me a few tales. Here’s a sample: Someone is walking on the hill path and hears a voice. “Son, be careful. Keep an eye on the path,” it says. The walker asks: “Why are you telling me this?” He gets a reply: “Son, whenever you left home, your mother used to put her hands and pray requesting me to protect you. Today, son, she’s no more. That’s why, am telling you to be watchful.” I don’t know why he chose to tell me this story. My eyes well up. Reminded of my mother who had passed way 13 years ago. May her soul rest in peace.

Suddenly a dozen grey-and-white colour doves land on the tree tops within his compound. “What you call them – Parinda? Kabootar?” he asks. Without waiting for a response, he goes ahead to narrate how he is bonding with them for years – 20 odd years at least – in the same compound. Allah asked me to feed them and I’m doing it, he informs me. The BMW I mentioned about a few days ago standing outside my residence belongs to Ali, now I understand. There are five more cars both inside and outside the compound. Some belong to him and others to some of his friends who are out of Dubai for a few years.

Another gem, he spills: It is better to live next to an empty house than a bad neighbour. By the way, he is upset that I am not introduced to him properly. He has to collar me up two days ago. I felt he was a bit rude and tried to generalize all Paksitanis are like that. That morning, I was in my shorts and a T-shirt. He was lecturing to me on etiquette while being seated inside his BMW. I apologized to him for not having met him soon after occupying the outhouse in his compound.

I never felt the need becoz the outhouse was sublet to me that too temporarily for a few weeks. In the subsequent days, he had seen me being picked up and dropped back by office colleagues and yes I was dressed formally – suit, jacket, tie etc and carrying a laptop. I had always seen him going to office in army camouflage apparel. The previous evening, he came visiting as soon I returned from work. I saw him reading one of my business cards lying on the desk. That’s when, in hindsight, I felt his attitude towards me changed for the better. “You did not tell me that you’re a journalist,” he said. Where did he give a chance? He prejudged me to be a clerk or middle level executive in some private sector outfit. Suddenly, I had become ‘Sir’ to him.

“You don’t eat chicken, mutton, beef, etc?” he asks. I politely nod. He picks up his entire non-vegetarian items mentioned above stuffed in my – or rather his – refrigerator kept in the kitchen. I was unsure to whom it belonged and hence left them untouched. He holds forth a long session on muslims’ penchant for mutton and european’s obsession with beef. “They (Europeans) feed mutton to their dogs whereas for muslims it is the staple diet,” he blurts out. He concurs that everybody has their own logic or rationale for following a particular food regimen.

Pointing to a few trees full of drumstick in his compound, Ali tells me that he permits Keralites to pluck them for their cooking. “They like it.” I also like it. For south Indians – particularly from Tamil Nadu – drum stick is equivalent to ‘viagra’. Newly wed couples are fed in copious quantities! Another tree’s flowers are favourite with Filipinos whom again are shown Ali’s benevolence. A kind soul, he is.

He invites me to watch Zee TV in his drawing room. I politely decline, shook hands with him and exit my abode to kill the first day of the long weekend in Dubai – alone. When I return from Emarat petrol filing station – hardly 200 metres away from home – I pick up Friday magazine supplement that comes with Gulf News. One of the columnists recommend – yawn and relax. I simply oblige her.

Good Morning, Dubai!-5

41-year old Mohammed Jameel could not resist laughing out loud. The Pakistani cab driver categorically maintains the business in Dubai is low. “Don’t believe if anyone says there is no impact of slowdown,” he asserts. I enquire the rationale behind his laughing. “I heard you saying your caller a few moments ago that life is slow, but the man or woman on the other end was arguing with you,” he explains. Well, that was a friend from Muscat claiming that he could not believe things would have gone bad between January when he had visited Dubai and now. Jameel, father of six children back in Peshawar, informs that until December last, people used to wait for two hours to get one of the 10,000 cabs plying on Dubai roads. Today, cab wallahs scout for passengers. “I saw you a few minutes from the other side of the road and praying that you don’t get a taxi till I take a U turn and reach you. Insha Allah, you did not get one till I picked you up!” says the yellow-tie wearing Pakistani cab driver plying on Dubai roads for the past two years. After December, for the first time, he had sent a decent money back home after putting together the past two months income. Tough times, indeed.

***
I could not resist asking him why six children? “What can I do? I was married when I was 16 years. I began to raise family when I was a child. Before I could realize, I had six children before I turned 25,” says Jameel with a tinge of embarrassment. Today, he assures me that he would not repeat the same mistake. Now, too late! His children – 4 boys and two girls – are in college and school and a major chunk of his income sent home goes towards their educational expenses. He is confident that his investment in children’s education is worth. His wife is also undergoing training in computers and he hopes she would land up with some job soon back home. Does he not miss his wife and children? “It is my fate that I have to live away from them. Earlier I used to cry. Today, I got used to it. Come Ramadaan, I will be completing two years in Dubai. But will I able to go home?” he wonders. Why? His contract with the cab company that has a fleet of over 2000 does not give him annual or bi-annual free home ticket and hence he has to shell out. Can he afford? Is what worries him.

***
May Sad is peppy Lebanese pretty young thing. She is hosting the workshop/seminar that is organized by my friend Abdul on health insurance in the Gulf region. She has done a lot of live shows in the region for a variety of companies. “You’re witty,” she quips as she goes through the script for her Master of Ceremonies role. Wherever she is uncomfortable with a word or phrase, she quietly suggests a change and that is done. Her eyes lit up when she spots a Lebanese speaker’s name. To lighten up the proceedings on Day one, she asks the panel “what is the latest on the Lebanon?”, knowing fully well the panel is seriously discussing the impact of global meltdown on health insurance in the Gulf. Some names of speakers are tongue-twisters for her as well. She crosschecks with the speakers quietly behind the doors and writes them in Arabic (her mother tongue). I recall the anchor scripting skills of Frank Agarwal at Business India TV (TVI) back in the mid-1990s. It is an art. Not everyone can excel in it. By the way, however great the anchor’s script may be, it is the duty of anchors to read and rescript to suit their linguistic comfort. I had faced challenges with many non-business anchors in handling my business/economic oriented scripts. Everyone is comfortable with general and political anchor scripts. Niche anchors who know the subject are a rarity.

***
I have extended my morning walks by two more kilometers. These days, I go up to Safa Park signal where Choithram supermarket is situated. Before sunrise, I see a clutch of newspaper delivery vendors wearing red T-shirts and sorting papers outside the park. Not a single dog in sight so far. I must bring Zack from Delhi soon to Dubai. Noticing a large number of cars parked outside Safa Lebanese Bakery diagonally across Safa Park, I quietly amble across. No coffee machine in sight. Pick up a Lebanese bread packet for the first time. It is crispy, wafer thin and breaks like Lijjad pappad. As I walk out of the Bakery, notice the orange ball of rising sun just behind the Burj Dubai tower on the horizon. Is it the same spherical beauty that torments a few hours later in the form of blazing heat? Yes, it is.