Falling clouds, exotic food and chic shopping in Hong Kong

Eid break in Hong Kong was a brief tryst with exotic food, therapeutic spa moments and lots of street walking, jostling through a sea of brand conscious Chinese flaunting Louis Vuitton and Dior bags – suddenly these brands looked affordable.


After a brief “Q&A” interruption at the immigration that ended in flashing my credit cards, cash and business card proving that I may not end up an illegal immigrant, I left behind a happy Chinese official and boarded the metro to the hotel.

The City is very modern with huge imposing glass buildings … a bit oversized for the average Chinese frame. But inside most of these buildings… everything comes in size ‘Zero’. Small beds ..still smaller chairs and claustrophobic-aesthetically designed bathrooms. Red taxies ply round the clock and while considering to use them remember that other than cash you need to have the street names and building names translated in Chinese. Music from FM channel seems to be unheard of. Almost all of the taxis we used were blaring Chinese news or could it be the communist manifesto? – who knows.

Public transport is efficient and heavily used – elegant double-decker buses, metro and trams. Trams looked like 3 dimensional hoardings on the move - dangerously delicate. The streets constantly smelled of Szechuan and other thousand sauces that left not a single Chinese with sparkling teeth – they looked as if pickled in oyster sauce!

We didn’t really go sightseeing…rather walked a lot in the city. But the ride up to the ‘Peak’ (that includes a mall perched on the mountain top) and the breakfast at Cafe Deco was an unforgettable experience…not just for the view of Hong Kong city from the peak…but for the first time I saw clouds losing their shapes and rapidly falling down in a trance…and then rained down on the city. It rained all the five days…in a way it was a relief from the humid weather. One night while waiting at a hotel reception for the rain to calm down, a lady who rushed in from the rain offered us her umberalla. Incidently it was offered to her by another stranger. For us … that was the soul of the city.

I found shopping cheaper than in Dubai. The iPhone was cheaper by AED 1,300. Spa is big business. We went in for a fish pedicure at the ‘Peak’ – hundreds of small fishes ate away our dead skin….a ticklish weird experience.

Hollywood road (‘load ‘thats how they pronounce) is lined with a lot of café’s, restaurants and pubs. We spend a few late nights in a few of them.

My friend a foodie and with a nose to smell the best kitchen that may not feature in recommended travel guides or in your hotel concierge listings found 3 fabulous places.

Press Room: Located on Hollywood road next to ‘Classifieds’ – a cheese and wine joint. Nothing journalistic about it….yes the collective vocal chord orchestration of the packed place sounded like a press room. Entry is strictly by reservation. Tastefully done interiors and dimly lit. We ordered Marion blanc 1988 craffe of wine; grilled sardines and Salmon ceviche in avocado, chili and coriander sauce for starters. Sardine was no longer a cheap fishe- it belonged to fine dining.

Rabbit rolled in ham bacon with ravioli in white cream sauce and Slow roasted sea bass in lemon and white wine sauce served with spinach and baby potatoes arrived under the main dish category. Not a morsel was left. We ended that day’s late night edition with a fruit gratin (stay away from this one) and Cho Marquise – chocolate fudge with ice cream. May be wrong choice of desserts – we felt like reading ’Page 3′ that’s cluttered with political analysis.


Gourmet Burger Union: You can either make your own burger – choosing the bread, spreads, filling etc or order from the menu painted on the wall. We went for the wall. The best burgers I ever had – unforgettable and didn’t feel guilty eating fast food for the first time. We came back again the next day.

Yung Kee Restaurant: on Wellington road was listed in the top 15 restaurants in the world by Fortune magazine and awarded a star by Michelin guide. It was our last day in Hong Kong and we relished on spicy crabs, minced pork rolled in omlets, steamed vegetables and Vietnamese style fried rice. My credit card company loved the transaction.

But no regrets…we ended Hong Kong on a high note with a heavy tummy and packed bags to the airport.

www.sathvic.com

For new blogs please visit

http://www.sathvic.com/

The elusive parking space…

Finding a match in your 30s is like looking for a parking space on a weekend. Good spots are all taken..! I was at lunch with this Arab American friend of mine. It was an unassuming Friday afternoon with a blazing sun outside and a growling appetite spread on the table.

She is in her 30’s and single. It’s been a few arabian summers since she last dated. Finding a date in this seemingly but not really conservative city has not been very lucky for her. She is not alone though. Her friends, all of them in the right and wrong side of 30 are single with no stable dates.

Torn between 2 cultures she feels that she is neither the quintessential western beauty nor a typical arab lass that would make bride material to a middle eastern groom. She silently joins the growing populace of single woman crossing the marriageable age trimming down the reproductive ambitions of this tiny state.

We finished our lunch and walked to the parking lot. She spotted her car. Getting a parking is all about timing. Being at the right spot at the right time. Sometimes it takes a bit too long. Eventually everybody looking for one gets a parking spot. Call it cosmic law.

Sex and the political class....

‘Rajneethi’ evoked a lot of political unrest within congress. Be it the female lead's (or her wardrobe) resemblance to the congress supremo or the plot itself. Censor board prescribed certain cuts on a love making scene that involves a politician. According to the director half of the scenes were chopped and he remarked on NDTV... ‘in India politicians are allowed only 50% of sex’.

Indian politicians are viewed in black or white. The black has only shades of corruption and inefficiency (sex not included). The media and public wish to believe that the largest democracy is run by sterile or sexually loyal representatives – any allegations of sexual misconduct is swiftly hushed. Clinton loves this collective consciousness and badly missed it in his country.

Kamala Das’s embrace of Islam was widely covered in the media. Most of them (media and the literary circle) knew the reasons for her conversion even though she did feign an attempt to explain that she felt protection in a ‘purdha’, liked the discipline of the religion and wanted a Master to guide her. For someone who had romanticised her love for Lord Krishna through numerous writings and a literary icon who embodifies Hindu cultural symbols, her sudden metamorphosis to a burqa clad ‘Suraiya’ was like the Pope swapping his costume with Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.

The truth was that she once again found love in her late years in a politician who was 20 years younger to her. She believed in total surrender in love (as true to her writings) and declared to the whole world her plans to convert. The politician who was madly in love with her chickened out in the last minute. He was worried about his career; may be his worry had more to do with the public perception of him making love to a 60 plus year old literary icon.

He withdrew and she never revealed his identity. She wrote about their love …at times describing it as a love that was secretly unveiled in moonlight. A few poems later she left the world.

Love, Union Aur Conversion

They started their romance with a promise that they would keep it as casual as a passing breeze. Belonging to conservative families – one Hindu and another Muslim, they simply didn’t see a future for their office romance.

Over time they realized that the time they spend busy punching away SMSs and in the late hours secretly whispering into the handset of the season gave them enough reasons to break the promise they made at the start. Finally they are getting married after a 5 year long courtship. Both the parents have agreed to the union. It must be a tremendous relief for the two as well as their parents.

But in all this she will undergo a transformation. A possible name change, start wearing a burqa, will no longer seek darshan before a ‘sreekovil’ to receive prasada which was so much part of her 20 plus years as a Hindu. Why confuse religion with love or relationships. Union of two souls doesn’t mean a union of religious beliefs. How does this conversion for love differ from the missionary conversions (allegedly lured with imported milk powder and bread) or other such conversions of the weaker population?

Hope ultimately the sanctity of love would triumph. It may one day help us to accept relationships above gothras, diktats of khaps (a new term into the vocabulary of the Indian urban populace) and religion among other boundaries we have collectively raised over the centuries…

Ms. Meritta - hereafter a beautiful memory.....

It was the early 80's and the debut of a 20 something anglo indian teacher with a charming disposition gifted with musical talent into the classrooms of a boys school was the harbinger of many a beautiful days to come. 

She taught history, english and also lead the school choir. She was soft spoken, beautiful with short curls and never considered a cane as an accessory. I was part of the choir and also took private guitar lessons on weekends. She was dating her fiancee those days whom we all thought was a terrible mistake. 

A year or two later in one of the catechisim class, Ms Zeta (her mom and our teacher too - credited to be the first in tangasseri to ride a bike) asked us to pray for her and her family to get rid of a devil thats entered her house.  The previous night i heard the commotion in her house as i was a house boarder in the neighbouring house. The Devil left their home and the mom and daughter lead a lonely life.

I rarely heard about her in the last 2 decades..during which she lost her marriage, mom and a glimmer of hope to live. Cancer was at her doorstep with only an empathetic neighbour for support. I share my grief of a lovely teacher who passed away  - overwhelmed to know that she was composed in her last days to have had the courage to make advance arrangements for her funeral (including stitching her burial gown) knowing fully well she was alone in a world while waiting for her last day...! 

Acknowledgement for pics: Balu and Noushad

Artistic Yoga - Looking for flat abs....look no further!

It took a few days for my Concierge Service agent to locate a 'Yoga' centre here in Kuwait. The centre offered 'Artistic Yoga' and ran 3 sessions a week. Day one was a big suprise. It was 60 minutes of hard labour that required physical strength, flexibility, stamina, balance and agility - not to mention the litres of sweat that rained.

Little did I know that Artistic yoga was poles away from the traditional form of Yoga. Bharath Thakur the founder of 'Artistic Yoga' has creatively blended ancient yogic techniques (asanas, pranayam, bandhas, kriyas & mudras) with modern cardiovascular-training intended to achieve dramatic results in body-toning and weight loss - abs in particular.

There is soothing music in the background while you toil your body. But at the end of the session you leave each class feeling re-charged, yet calmer...tranquil within.

Looking for flat abs....look no further!

Hannah Montana and the pink dreams....

 She is 6 years old and hates her classical dance classes but loves bollywood dance numbers. So the 1 hour dance class is split into 30 minutes of classical lessons followed by a bollywood bonus in the 2nd half. Apart from pickig up an art, the 1 hour of prespiration is also intended to free her from the seemingly harmless comment 'she is on the healthier side'.  

She adores 'hannah montana'. Why? 'because she is a pop star!'
So? 'she is rocking!' she said with her eyes wide open fluttering over rows of 'hannah montana' branded frocks, jackets and accessories - all of them PINK. All her class mates have 'HM' branded clothes or school bags. She managed to get the 'HM' clothes this time with a promise for a school bag during next visit.

Its not something new that kids want to be like grown ups. But these rows of branded pink sequenced dreams for sale is a highway to that pseudo-adulthood. A few rows across, women (housewives, mothers, aunts, professionals) were drifting through flowery prints - to restore the lost girly days.

The date line....

One more of those survey findings that bloomed atop a lifestyle journos desk as a filler for the next days edition. But I found this one interesting. Women dates an average 24 times before they meet Mr. Right. Each set back adds up 8 pounds. Just imagine... by the time the average 'golden date number' is crossed she would have flabbed colossally....

I presume the journo either got the maths wrong or is a fan of junk food corporations that run global obesity mines - if latter then a feeble attempt to wipe the guilt smeared on them.

My pick is that the journo was just bad in numbers. Else how does one explain many of our toned page 3 celebrities.

In search of a song...

Simon Cowell commented to one of the American Idol participant that she performed a song that didnt represent her personality. The song represented someone else and not 'her' that they had seen in the last couple of weeks.

But what caught my attention was the participants immediate well articulated response to his comment. She said ' Am not sure why I should just portray one single personality. I embodify very distinct pieces of varied personalities that come into play in different situations. Which one should i  pick for American Idol?  I dont think i need to pick one of them to represent me here...rather go with a mix!' 

So true. We all do.... play different roles and personifies as the script demands. As a sibling, spouse, colleague, lover, client, boss, or as a stranger who picks up a conversation while in metro, we all exude multiple layers of personlaities. I have not come across a single song that can personify this myriad collage of human ego and alter egos.

The mud sling on Tiger Woods brand representation or the questionable 'Sweat Equity' of Ms. Pushkar that consumed tons of brazilain rain forest pulp and peaked traffic on global fibre-optic networks, i guess was all about millions of Simons' quest for a singular persona in these tabliod victims thats palatable for public consumption.

Tweets - Remembering Tharoor, Sunanda and Jessica

Be it the nail biting match point played out by Sania and Mailk in media glare or images of fake eyelashes of Sunanda Pushkar and of a confident stubborn Tharoor that filled the flat screens for days, the fun doesn’t end. These days media gets their ‘stories’ (they are no more news) from a small birdie that tweets it out in 140 characters.


Tweeting - the neologism that feeds the new age news media in fact broadcasts to a global collective consciousness. A powerful set of 140 characters that can oust a minister in India and an attractive brand consultant in Dubai to lose her ‘sweat equity’.

I miss the good old ‘Doordarshan’ days. Even though they were heavily loaded with ‘Rajiv Gandhi’ PR, I wish I could switch on to a 8.40 pm news read by Salma Sultan (with a rose nestled in her hair) or to the English verion read by G.B. Komal Singh and the path breaking ‘World this week’ from Prannoy Roy.

But in equal measure also acknowledge how the same new age media was instrumental in bringing final justice to Jessica Lal today after an agonizing 11 years.

Once upon a time...

Story telling is an art especially when you have a heavy pair of eyes working against gravity in the dark. Children love to listen to bedtime stories. Listening to the same story over and over again never really bores them. On the contrary they memorise it each time and ensure that you don’t take any short cuts to finish the story earlier than schedule.

I have rehashed familiar stories and swapped characters when run out of new stories. At times I invent my own stories where the characters love to eat vegetables and hate KFC and colas. She agrees to the moral of the story but is short lived … giving me enough opportunity to repeat it again and again.

I think repeated listening of the favourite fairly tales in a way gives children the confidence to form their own visuals within and to relate to their surroundings. For a child each new day is an experience that augments the surreal world sketched by beautiful princesses, dwarfs, fairies et al.

Once upon a time there was a princess…..don’t yawn ….let your child paint a beautiful world that only belongs to her.

Second chances...

They lost all their wealth including a palatial house that stood majestically in half acre of tropical land with jack fruit trees, myriad varities of mango and banana, scores of teakwood trees, and a land scaped lawn among others.

A decade later they were fortunate to buy it back from the very same couple to whom they had sold it. To me it sounded a bit celluliodish. We seldom hear something like that. Even if you have the money owning a previously sold property is not easy...especially when its a house and the present owner has no financial reason to sell it.

I believe it was destiny...and believe in the age old saying 'you cant win a desired love or land; it has to come over to you.'

This second chance has also restored the memories of their childeren that were lost in the dust that ensued the trauma of loss.

We all deserve second chances...be it a lost love, a job that slipped away or a terrible illness. Its only a question of how much we need it.

Creation of Wealth and Maids or (No) maid = (No) half wealth

Price tags in the Middleeastern cities have surged in sync with the skyscrapers in the last decade forcing expat women to step out of their apartments and take up jobs to support the growing family budget. This meant they could afford more spends on luxury goods, signing up for yoga or weigth loss classes, occasional leisure travel....and reasonable savings.

Families with babies and or school going children owes a big part of this wealth creation opportunity to a person who takes care of their children while they are at work - the Maid. With a lack of a social support system in the arab cities, a maid becomes a key resource in the economic equation of an expat family.

They come cheap and hence most families have one. Western expats live a dream with some families going for more than one maid to support the family chores (a expensive dream in their home country. So its just not the tax free haven that keeps them going.). Some local families have one for every child (guestimated average would be around at 4 kids per family). The couple, kids and their respective maids move around in malls like a NGO delegation atteding an UN conference on shoppping.

Last week my friend was at receiving end from his wife when he was late to pick her after work. Reason being they are late to reach home as the maid needs to leave for the day. For a moment he felt the maid had priority over him in his wife's check list. I told him that half of your monthly wealth creation starts and ends with the maid. (No) maid = (No) half wealth. He is good in maths, understands economics and has an MBA from IIM.

He is a happy man now. Leaves office on time.

See Paris for me...

I pick up a few books from a local bookstore everytime i go home. Last week i returned to kuwait with 4 new titles and one among them is 'See Paris for me' authored by Preeti Aisoli. I have never heard about her or read any review about the book. I picked it up for the namesake. From the back cover i assumed it would dvelve into the intriacies of a mature passionate relationship outside marriage.

The narration is more or less a diary entry narrating a forbidden relationshp between two mature individuals. The story is set in Paris and takes you through almost all major museums, concert halls and works of painters.  Its about Sadhvi, wife of a diplomat posted in Paris who gets intensly attracted to a scholar teacher.

The story is set in Paris, Budapest and hydrebad. Both of them are mature, inteligent with a common interest in arts, musuems and concerts. Readers need to have patience for loads of narrtive on music and art. Her yearning for him and the emotional struggle to let go of it forms the underlying narrative. They occcasionally meet at her home for lunch with other friends or chance meetings at museums or on the numerous romantic parisian streets.

They rarely talk freely about their relationship. But their meetings can be best summarised by " deprived of the will to move they sat next to each other in unquiet silence. The unspoken swirled around them in dizzly 
circles".

This novel celebrates the silent yearning at times the soul craves for and is painted in a canvas that sketches the struggle to let go of it too.

Strictly for moody romantic art lovers.

From Kabul to Paris...just to be alive!

She is a widow in her late sixties living with her youngest unmarried daughter in Paris. Its a small house with minimal furniture a dire contrast from her palatial bungalow in Afghanistan. She looked frail but there was nobility in her eyes and in her weak hunched gait.

She is the wife of a former general and minister of the erstwhile Rabbani government. The family sought asylum in Paris soon after Taliban deluged the power corridors of Kabul leaving behind countless bodies that warmed the power seats of government, military and royalty.

She along with her husband six daughters and a son lived a quiet life in the suburbs of Paris. There were no more servants to house keep or to prepare lavish Afghani menus the family was used for generations. Dusty albums- the only reminder of their days in a pre-taliban kabul opened up on my lap.

I was stunned at the beauty she was in her engagement picture. She wore a dark green short sleeve dress that revealed her legs from the knees. She was seated with her head tilted towards the right showing the flowers arranged on the silk hat she was wearing. Hard to imagine that Kabul had once adorned naked legs and flowery hats that would put any Jane Austen character to shame.

There were numerous pictures of the couple visitng Russia, Azerbeijan, Pakistan, India and parts of Europe. They were mostly pictured with army generals and ministers. From the hectic political and socilite life adjusting to a life of a refugee took its toll on the family. but they were content to be alive.

This was a family who lost all their wealth, belongings and roots but managed to survive Taliban. But not many were as lucky as she was.

P. F. Chang’s – the new Chinese bistro in Kuwait

‘Been there twice and didn’t get a table’….. ‘the waiting time is like an hour and more’ - sound bites from my office. What more PR does a newly launched restaurant need? The reference is about P.F. Chang’s - the new entrant in the Kuwaiti dining scene. This brand being a US based one is familiar with the young Kuwaiti population. This is their first venture outside US.

Am not a great fan of Chinese cuisine but the elusive aura built around the difficulty in getting a table landed me along with my long time friend from UAE at the reception desk on P.F. Chang’s in Aveneues mall. ‘Sorry sir…you are 12^th in the waiting list’ smiled the lady at the reception while raising her thick mascara eyes from the reservation register. I looked at my friend and we rolled our eyes ‘as expected’. ‘By the way I can offer you the bar counter’. We didn’t care…

The food was worth the hour spend on the bar stool. We ordered dynamite shrimps and fried green beans for starters. The latter (a simple dish of batter fried green beans) was a bit bland but worked great with the sauce. The dynamite shrimp exploded shaking up every taste bud taking notice of the batter fried shrimps soaked in a thick spicy sauce. I could spot the cocktail glass, in which the shrimps arrived, on every second table. I repeated the shrimps during my second and third visit as well.

Need to mention here about Chicken lettuce wraps – a must try! I loved my drink as well – a blend of honey, sweet melon and I guess orange.

The main dishes were fine. The ginger chicken with broccoli and the orange peel shrimps were an escape from the true Cantonese style and that’s exactly why I liked them. They came with brown rice (our very own palakkadan matta). The menu am told was originally conceived and planned by chef Philip Chiang (now you know the origin of Chang in the name).

The mini desserts were really ‘mini’ just to fold in to the last few square inch spaces down your belly. The ambience is chic so was the bill. Finally I dined at a Chinese bistro that was named after human beings (Paul & Chang) and not a dragon or a lantern !

                                                                                      

Valentines day - a story of love, flowers and bills

Love was in the air. Love smelled like roses, felt like red silk and tasted like delicacies at a fine dine restaurant with candles lit between pairs of love struck glistening eyes.

'Planning' seems to be the key word when it comes to 'love' on Velentines day. Valentines who were trying for a last minute dinner reservation or flower delivery would vouch for that...because they never got that romantic seat in their favourite food bar or the perfect dew filled roses decked with cupids arrows. 

My colleague placed a last minute flower delivery (paying KD 3 i.e more than US$ 10 per rose) and ended up with 20 withered roses that looked like they had practically been sniffed by the entire neighbourhood. But for most of my friends and family it was a perfect 'Valentines day'

It was mid day when i called my sis to wish her. She sounded ecstatic as i later learned she was the Jeweller with her valentine. A newly married friend took a flight from Kuwait all the way to Bombay to be with his valentine. The day seem to have passed by peacefully in Bombay and not disrupted by the Shivsainiks...lately they had too much on their plate ( Rahul Gandhi, SRK..) and sending troops on Feb 14th seemed to be another disaster they didnt want the statelite channels to dine on.

Another friend who keeps telling me how the recession in dubai had spiralled his business (of course to the earth's core) found petty cash useful to decorate his office with fresh flowers and rolls of red silk - all for employee motivation in a recession hit economy.

Another Valentine day faded out in the horizon...leaving behind a lot more love and a lot more bills to pay....


  

Shivarathri...om namah shivaya...

Today is Shivarathri...men and women fast during the day and stay awake during the night - all for thanking lord Shiva for saving the world. There are numerous myths regarding the origin of Shivaratri. All these myths happened during night and hence reason enough for celebrating Shivaratri during night.

I googled and found a few 'shivarathi' myths  - about Vishnu and brahma searching for the origin of Linga following a fight,  the Story of Shivaratri based on 'Samudra Manthan' where Shiva drank the poison that was churned out of the ocean and had to stay awake the whole night to keep himself alive. 

There is also another story of Shivratri based on a hunter who escaped wild animals by climbing a tree and kept him awake by plucking Bilva leaves. In the morning, he discovered that he had been dropping the leaves on a Shivling. And the word spread that he was saved by Lord Shiva.

Apart from these myths, it is said that the reunion of Lord Shiva and Parvati happened on the Shivratri day. Another legend states that Lord Shiva performed the Taandava on this day - the origin of indian classical dance.

Shivarathri (night of Shiva) has eventually entered the Indian vocabulary (be it hindu or christian, marathi or tamilian) as a term for sleepless night. Every night India (or where ever Indians are living) murmurs 'Looks like tonight is going to be shivarathri' -  it may be a newly wed groom whispering lustly in the dark, a tired mother trying to put her child to sleep, a student on his exam night....they all experience the essence of 'shivarathri'.

Just a heads up about your hypermarket counter assistant

Its thursday evening and our office elevators (8 of them) frantically stuttered at each floor and offloaded scores of our colleagues on to the ground floor. They were all in a hurry to queue up the narrow spiral exit of the parking block adjacent to the office building.

By the time i left office the elevaors were taking an evening nap. I met William in the elevator. He works as an office boy (yeah they remain 'boys' forever) on the 18th floor. He is not hurrying to go home to rest and then to go out later in the evening to enjoy the weekened.

William like many other low paid expatriates work as counter assistants at a leading hypermarket. No...they are not employed as part time assistants. They 'pay' this retailer to be employed. They pay KD 1 (US$ 3.6) per day to the retailer to help pack the trolley of goods purchased by their customers. William and his colleagues hope to get tips from these customers tired of shopping while attempting to load these huge trolleys (assumably designed by a finance guy to accomodate a lot more than one would have intended to shop).

Next time you see a hypermarket counter assistant skilfully opening the thin plastic bags to load your grocery, think about tipping him. He has paid from his pocket to serve you in the hope of making a little extra on a busy weekend.

Salute to the Hypermarket giant for a win-win strategy - the employee pays for packing goods that are paid for by its customers. In a recession hit market, organisations are looking for new revenue streams - but this seems to be a stretch of imagination rooted in sheer expliotation of a meek marginal population.

Recall Mails

People have a fascination to open a recalled mail even when they know that the sender has expressed the desire otherwise. 99% of the times I get my ‘recall’ request popping up as failed. It’s the human urge to know or experience the forbidden in action.

The underlying thought process is that there has to be some goof up that the sender is trying to hide and I need to know it. But still the ‘Recall’ option is a good feature (if successful) allowing to avoid an embarrassment or a regret. Wish we could apply the ‘Recall’ option to some of our sound bites that create havoc (mostly) in our personal lives.

The husbands of the world would vouch for that. To gain an upper hand in an argument, men do say silly things – mostly about in-laws or compare spouse to another woman (sister or sister-in-law) and then they repent for a life time.

Same goes to a wrongly send SMS. I remember the rumor about a cricketer sending an SMS to his wife that was intended for his mistress. The grape wine is that the sms was intentionally send to break the news to his wife. Men are so vulnerable. They even have to fake confessions!