FCNR accounts in freely convertible currencies

RBI has vide its notification dated 19th October 2011 allowed opening of Foreign currency (non resident) bank account in any permitted freely convertible currency. Hitherto it was allowed only in pound sterling, US dollar, japanese yen, australian dollar and canadian dollar. That is one measure of liberalisation, albeit very late in its coming. Copy of the circular can be found here.

When Eight Bells Toll

This text is posted in Abanyom language, which is a Niger-Congo language. spoken by the Abanyom people in the Cross River state of Nigeria. 

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*“When Eight Bells Toll” Alistair MacLean nyɔ kpɔ kɛ ka ndʉ́, eyɔ itʉk ɔkpɔ kpáá nà ákwɔ itʉkpá. MacLean bɛ yí ɔfɔ itʉk m̀bà kpé kpá kpá, nà ɔmɔ nyɔkwɔ a bákwa mbɔt ékpè, nà ɔyɔk íkpá èkpè akpánkpà ékpè mbɔt m̀bà.

Iták itɔ́rɔ nyɔ Scotland, ébé ékàŋ, ébé áfɔm, ébé ékpè abà, ébé ùbɔŋ ndʉ́. British government kà Philip Calvert, ɔkpɔkpɔ àkpà ákwɔ ékpè, ékpè nà ɔkpɔ kpa àkpà navy. Èkànyɔ ɔkpɔ itʉkpá ékpè: àkwɔ ùkpɔ yí gold nyɔ, bɔt bɔt, kpɔkɔkpɔkpɔ ékpè m̀bà ákwɔ bɔt, kà ànyɔ kpɔkɔ kpáá kpáá, kà áyí ákwɔ íbá kpá kpá.”*

Calvert, kà ányɔk ikɔrɔ, kà yɔk itɔk àkwɔ nkùrú, nyɔ ànyɔ nà ɔkpɔ itʉk ékpè, ɔkpɔ itɔk ébé ɔmɔ ákwɔ “marine biologist.” Kà, ɔkpɔ ákpàkpà, ɔkpɔ íkpá ákwɔ ékpè m̀bà: àkwɔ ùkpɔ m̀bà ákpà, àkwɔ ékpè m̀bà ébìé, nà ànyɔkpɔ itɔk íkpà ébé ókwɔk ókpɔ àkpà èyíé. Èbé MacLean yí ɔkpɔ ékpè nyɔ, nyɔ ànyɔ ékpè ébà ákwɔ àkpà.”

Calvert yí ɔkpɔ m̀bà MacLean: ɔkpɔ èkpè kpá, ɔkpɔ àkwɔ ányɔ, àkpà nyɔ ànyɔ. Ma Calvert ɔkpɔ itɔk ébé ɔkpɔ yɔ àkpà, kà nyɔ ébé yí ɔkpɔ itɔk nà ékpè àkwɔ whisky, kà yɔk ǹtɔ́rɔ nà kpá kpá, kà yí ìbá itɔk kpá kpá ébé ɔkpɔ íkpá ákpà.”

Ànyɔk nà ɔkpɔ itɔk nyɔ: Hunslett, ébé ɔkpɔkɔkɔ; Sir Anthony Skouras, ébé nyɔ àkpàkpà ma bɔt èkpé; Charlotte, ébé ányɔ nyɔ kpá kpá ényí kpá. Ànyɔk ɔkpɔ bɔt kpá, ma Charlotte nyɔ kpá kpá èkpè, kà kpɔ itɔk kpá kpá ékpè.”

Atɔk nà ákwɔ When Eight Bells Toll, MacLean kpɔ itɔk ébé ɔkpɔ m̀bà: àkwɔkpɔ àkwɔ ǹkɛkpé, àkwɔkpɔ àkwɔ ékpè, nà kpá kpá ébé ákwɔ ùkpɔ ékpè kpé nà ákwɔ íbá kpá kpá. Ùkpɔ m̀bà nyɔ bɔt kpá, ma ákwɔkpɔkpɔ kpé ébé ànyɔkpɔ, kpɔkɔkɔ ákwɔ ùkpɔ kpé nà ákwɔkpɔ ékpè kpé.”

MacLean yí ɔkpɔ ékpè kpá kpá: itɔk ékpè kpá, ékpè kpa kpá, nà yɔ itɔk kpá kpá ébé ákwɔ nkem abɔt. Èbé Scotland, èbé ékàŋ, ùkpɔ ákwɔ, nà ùkpɔ ékpè nà ákpà kpá, nyɔ kpé kpá kpá, kpá kpá nà nyɔ ékpè kpá. Itɔk nà itɔk ékpè, kpɔkɔkpɔkpɔ àkwɔkpɔ ákpà ékpè kpá.”

Nyɔkpɔ, When Eight Bells Toll, nyɔ MacLean kpá kpá: ùkpɔ m̀bà kpá, èbé ákwɔ kpá kpá, nà ùkpɔ ékpè kpá kpá. Èbé nyɔ nà ákwɔ kpá kpá kpá: ɔkpɔ èkpè, ɔkpɔ kpá kpá, nà ɔkpɔ nyɔ kpé kpá kpá. Èbé ányɔkpɔ ùkpɔkpɔ nà àkpà ákpà kpá, ányɔ nyɔ When Eight Bells Toll kpé kpá kpá.” 

Word of Honour

Nelson DeMille’s Word of Honor is a magisterial amalgam of courtroom drama, war chronicle, and philosophical inquiry, a narrative that excavates the indelible scars left by the Vietnam War upon both the American soldiery and the society to which they returned. It ventures beyond the superficialities of battlefield reportage to grapple with weightier themes: the psychology of combat, the corrosive burdens of guilt, the fragile sinews of loyalty, and the ever-elusive quest for truth.

At its epicentre stands Ben Tyson, a seemingly unremarkable yet eminently respectable corporate executive in his mid-forties, whose carefully constructed edifice of bourgeois stability is shattered when his wartime past comes crashing into his present. Once a lieutenant leading an infantry platoon in Vietnam, Tyson finds himself the unwilling protagonist of a long-suppressed atrocity: a massacre in Hue, during the Tet Offensive, where his men are alleged to have slaughtered unarmed civilians in a hospital. The revelation, unearthed by a journalist’s exposé, rekindles embers long thought extinguished, culminating in his arrest and the prospect of a court-martial nearly two decades after the guns of war had fallen silent.

DeMille’s narrative oscillates between two registers: the ferocity of the battlefield and the solemnity of the courtroom. The former, replete with its chaos, carnage, and impossible moral dilemmas, is conjured in harrowing flashbacks; the latter, taut and relentless, is charged with the task of parsing culpability, accountability, and the ambiguities of military honour. It is in this contrapuntal rhythm—between memory and trial, between past and present—that the novel derives its emotional gravitas.

At the heart of Word of Honor lies a profoundly disquieting question: can actions undertaken in the furnace of war be judged by the placid standards of peacetime morality? Tyson himself maintains that the massacre was far less unequivocal than it has been portrayed, and DeMille, to his credit, refuses the convenience of facile answers. Instead, he propels the reader into the morally murky interstices between survival and conscience, between duty and the dictates of human decency.

The passage of time serves as more than mere chronology; it is itself a character in the drama. Two decades have warped, blurred, and contested memory. Witnesses diverge in their recollections, and Tyson himself vacillates between his personal sense of honour and the damning accusations leveled against him. The courtroom proceedings, swiftly metamorphosing into a media spectacle, reveal society’s predilection for simplifying the complexities of war into the binary of villain and hero, scapegoating the individual soldier while ignoring the political machinery that engendered the conflict.

The novel’s dramatis personae enrich this tapestry of moral interrogation. Tyson emerges as a deeply compelling protagonist—stoic, cerebral, and haunted, his calm exterior masking an unrelenting inner turmoil. His wife, Marcy, embodies the collateral casualties of war, forced to re-evaluate both her marriage and her own moral compass. Colonel Kemel, the implacable prosecutor, personifies the remorseless face of institutional justice, while Tyson’s fellow soldiers—some loyal, others treacherous—mirror the fissures wrought by war upon the very fabric of fraternity.

DeMille’s prose, muscular and unsentimental, spares neither the reader’s nerves nor sensibilities. The depictions of Hue are immersive in their brutality; the courtroom dialogues pulsate with an almost theatrical intensity. The narrative cadence, alternating between flashback and legal jousting, engenders a mounting sense of inevitability, as though the verdict—whether judicial or moral—cannot be forestalled.

Ultimately, Word of Honor transcends the taxonomy of a mere war novel. It is a meditation on memory and morality, an inquiry into whether constructs such as honour and justice retain meaning amidst the moral nihilism of war. By juxtaposing the carnage of a battlefield with the antiseptic rigours of a courtroom, DeMille compels his reader to confront discomfiting questions: What constitutes honour? What defines justice? And are either truly possible when men are consigned to the crucible of combat? Goodreads 4/5

3 hours feet on the street

Three House feet on the street




As part of the ramp up in mileages, I had decided to do a 3 hour run today, 2nd October 2011 along with the monthly bandra-ncpa group training run. With me I had Hemant for company for he was a absolutely steady runner, good rhthym, steady pace and unflagging and he remains all the time with you. So we were about 6 of us starting from Khar Road station on the west side and going towards the town side in South Bombay. Along the way, some runners were coming in from Bandra carter road, so in order to do more mileages, we decided to venture into Carter road and meet them and run alongside with them. Barely had we gone 50 metres into carter road, then that group started streaming in at full blast as if they were to catch a train and they were already late.

Anyway, we were going at our steady pace, myself, Hemant and Sharan. The humidity was a bit high in the early mornings but the weather was holding good. When we reached Shivaji Park, we decided to do one loop of the Park, but the moment we entered the Park loop, the wind dried down and we were caught up in a dry air. So, one loop was enough for the day.

We took our first toilet break at Worli sea face and a little after that we met Venkat who was coming from Bandra MIG club. Sharan went along with Venkat so myself and Hemant were then going steady towards Haji Ali, when we came across a huge line of devotees standing early in the morning itself to pay a visit to the famous Mahalaxmi temple. The line was long running half way past the Haji Ali, but it was very orderly and disciplined.

We decided to take a water break at Haji Ali juice centre and ordered one bottle water and one glass of mosambi juice. Unfortunately the juice took long time in coming so we must have taken about 5 minutes break there. Climbing up the pedder road, we saw Sejal Sheth going along so she joined us before the Kemps Corner flyover. There was a huge temptation to do the Cumballa hill and come down from Marine Drive side, but we were already 2.08 hours into the run, so we estimated that we should reach marine drive by 2.20 hours and then take it from there to NCPA. But we reached at about 2.17 hours so decided to go along the Malabar Hill road, but since it was a climber, and the legs were protesting, decided to turn back and head towards NCPA.

The weather was still holding good, the sun was behind the clouds, so running on the Marine Drive was not difficult. Sejal came for company for a while and said it was her first group run and thoroughly enjoyed it. Finished 3.00 hours somewhere near the air india building so decided to walk a bit before running down the last 50 metres or so to finish a good day of running in 3.04 hours.