Some very few readers of this blog might remember my wedding. I say very few, because it involved a lunchtime foray to the Old Customs House, a government office full of shelves covered in ancient varnish and equally ancient files, graced only by a spectacular old fig tree out front. That was followed by a lunch at the Sea Lounge, and a return to work. That evening, at a friend’s apartment, we recited vows that we’d written ourselves.  Soon afterward, we went to my parents’ home in Delhi, and had an exchange of garlands under the sweet-scented madhu malati creeper on their verandah, and recited the same vows. My parents insisted on a wedding reception; my father being a scrupulously law-abiding civil servant, it was a modest (though very pleasant) tea-time affair at the IIC, within the bounds of the Guest Control Order. And because we’d suddenly been transferred to Tokyo, even the invitations had to be corrected by hand when the date was changed. (And our families first met each other many years after we were married. They liked each other immediately, making us think we probably should have introduced them earlier.) We didn’t even have telephones, much less the Internet which hadn’t then been invented.

This wedding was not that wedding.

This wedding involved several events, and a meeting of the clans. We not only met our co-inlaws, we exchanged online greetings. As with our parents, we liked each other immediately; and we were glad our youngsters, unlike our young selves, hadn’t waited seven years to introduce us.

Had it been in India, we’d probably have arranged it all and outsourced everything. It wasn’t India, it was California, and anyway having ignored our own parents’ well-meaning advice when it was our turn, we certainly had forfeited any right to interfere. The young couple did everything themselves, mostly on the Internet. They researched wedding planning on the internet, read wedding blogs, and found online checklists, and got their own checklists set up. They located their vendors on the Internet, and used Yelp to evaluate them. They hired the make-up artist and the photographer  and the caterers and a seamstress who adjusted the wedding gown and made sari blouses, and the mehndi artist. And on finding the mehndi artist’s website had a wonderful decorated cake, we commissioned one of those as well.

When they had their game-plan set up, it was a thirteen-page handbook sent by email to the key personnel. (Living in multiple cities and time-zones, email was an important means of communication.) They designed their own invitations, printed each one out on the computer printer, and addressed them all by hand.

This was a wedding that arrived on our doorstep in cardboard cartons. They bought everything they needed online: The table cloths. Vases. Candle-holders. Trays. A fire-bowl. Personalized mugs. Dried rose petals. 400 fresh roses. Fortunately, we had space to store everything, there was a lot. Later, wedding presents started to arrive, also in cardboard cartons…

They had a legal wedding, but unlike the Old Customs House, this was at San Francisco’s gracious City Hall, a domed structure with a great marble rotunda and classical carvings. The bride wore white. Her brother brought her red roses.

Then came the ceremonial wedding. The young couple asked our friend Sri to design a kolam geometric pattern especially for them, and she came up with one that was simple, elegant, and incorporated — at their request — an elephant. Using, of course, a computer program to do it, rather than the more traditional rice-flour in water used as a paint on a mud floor…

They requested our friend Aks to officiate, working with a ceremony they wrote themselves. (This was another point of commonality — but our ceremony was maybe a third as long and had no officiant.) It incorporated Shakespeare’s sonnet 116, and the Gayatri mantra — both found online (with a translation of the Sanskrit, too).  It incorporated vows and seven steps and I dos and I wills. It had a role for all the parents, asking us to welcome the new member of our families. (“We will!” we all shouted, enthusiastically.) It happened around a fire, made in the fire-bowl that arrived on our doorstep earlier. And it included an exchange of special-ordered garlands that arrived at the site that very morning…

The bride wore purple. The bridegroom wore a natural silk kurta embroidered in gold. These items were possibly the only major things that weren’t purchased or planned online (though we did check out the India Saree Palace on Yelp before sourcing the clothes from there…)

A wonderful time was had by all. And we’re thrilled to have a new member to our family and a whole new set of relatives!

(And they’re a refreshing counterpoint to the irritating call-center interruptions from Dish Network…)

I knew something was wrong when I went into my Yahoo email account a couple of days ago. The list of emails in my inbox looked fine, but when I clicked on one entitled  ”Meeting next week?” instead of the expected note from my friend, it was spam. I presumed it was a Yahoo glitch, and carried on.

But when I went to Google, it was clear this wasn’t just any little glitch. The same thing was happening with my Google searches. They were getting hijacked to evil sites like “Ta*zinga” and “add*edsuccess” (The asterisks are mine. Just to be safe.)

So I ran a full scan with Microsoft Security Essentials. A couple of hours later it came up with the culprit: a Trojan called Tracur.Gen!B — which it said it had removed.

It hadn’t. My Searches were still being hijacked, and another full scan gave me the exact same result: Trojan:JS/Tracur.Gen!B

TIME TO CALL MICROSOFT

This time, I knew to go directly to Microsoft’s Security people for help. (I couldn’t get to the forums in any case, with all my searches being redirected.) They’d been winners the last time, the young people in Chennai. I emailed, got my support case number and the phone number to call. The last time, I’d gotten through almost instantly. Not now. Instead, I got put on endless hold of music and commercial messages. I gave up. Night- time would be better.

Around 10 p.m. I got through much faster, to “Jason”  who was possibly Jaisingh or Janak, I don’t know. (Or may even actually be  Jason. ) I explained the problem, then told him that the last time, it had been Kaspersky’s tdsskiller that fixed the problem.

“This is more powerful than Kaspersky,” Jason told me. I visualized a videogame screen, Tracur and Kaspersky battling it out in armor with swords. My best bet, he thought, would be to run MRT (Microsoft’s Malware Removal Tool) and then call them back. It would take several hours, he said. So I ran it, and it took several hours, at the end of which it showed… nothing. But my searches were still being hijacked.

RAHUL TO THE RESCUE

I called them back, and this time Rahul answered the phone and took my case number. He cut to the chase, sharing my computer, running some searches for and with Bing (I have Google as my home page), and noting how those got redirected. Then he ran Kaspersky. It showed… nothing, again nothing. But searches were still being hijacked. So Jason was right. I pictured Tracur standing with a victorious foot on fallen Kaspersky’s chest.

“How come Microsoft Security Essentials didn’t block this?” I asked, annoyed.  If this problem didn’t get fixed, this machine was doomed to spend its remaining days as an isolated super-typewriter with no internet access.

At this point, Rahul (who still controlled my computer) removed my existing Internet Explorer. “You’ll lose all your cookies and saved passwords and settings,” he said apologetically before he started.

“Go for it,” I said. Who cared about cookies when the searches were being stolen? “Is it a browser problem? I just got rid of Firefox because it seemed to be lodged there, but that didn’t fix it.”

“Sometimes,” he said, a bit doubtfully. Then he downloaded the latest version of Explorer.

And wondrously, the searches were back to normal. It was now maybe 3 a.m., and worth every minute of the time it took.

Thanks, guys! Great job.

(Later, I ran another full scan with Microsoft Security Essentials. This time, it also showed nothing. I have my fingers crossed the machine stays clean.)

###

And yes, my tech-expert friends, I know I should be running Linux. I just find the learning curve a bit too steep…

My first impressions were okay, looks like every other shiny new airport now. I’ve flown into Changi (Singapore) when it was new, and Chek Lap Kok when it replaced Kai Tak’s thrill ride (Hong Kong). There’s a certain new-airport vibe. Long corridors, new carpet, pristine walls, oversized architecture.

Mentally comparing it with the little old airport I’d become accustomed to, I started tallying the Good, the Bad, and the Mucked Up.

THE GOOD

• The bathrooms! Finally, clean, world-class bathrooms. As a concession to Indian toilet hygiene, they have water available for ablutions. They had attendants who kept an eye on the place and cleaned up at intervals, something unnecessary in most countries but a very nice amenity in a nation where some percentage of travelers are not accustomed to Western-style toilets.

• Bright and light. The corridors are broad, the colors reasonable (white with reds and yellows), and most of the travelators working.

• Not crowded. It may have been the times I landed and left, or it may be the size of the place. It wasn’t at all crowded.

• Vending machines at every gate, selling water and soft-drinks, and flavored potato chips. The bottles of water were Rs10-20 (about 20-50 cents). In San Francisco International, they rip you off at $2 or so. Of course, in San Fran you can also take your own empty bottle and refill it at a drinking fountain, a risk I still would not take in India. (I only drink boiled or bottled water when I visit there.)

• Separate security lines for ladies and gentlemen. Everywhere else, toilets are separated by gender. In India, they’ve started separating security lines. I’m listing it under good because it actually seems to work pretty efficiently. (The picture here is from Bangalore airport, but it’s the same in Delhi.)

• [Edited to Add:  No more signs prohibiting photography. For decades, India forbade photography both at airport and on planes. No more.]

THE BAD

• Oh what a trek! One of my complaints about modern airports is the long distances one must walk. Travelators (moving walkways) help; but this airport has long stretches that lack them. I departed from Gate # 13, and it compares with the worst of Heathrow (London). Once you arrive there, you’re in a barren wilderness of carpet and you don’t feel like hiking all the way back to where you might find coffee or a snack or books. Thank heavens for my Kindle… and those vending  machines! Gate #14 (opposite Gate #13) is as bad. If your flight leaves from either one, factor in 30-40 minutes extra. I saw a just- married couple galloping down the corridor, her henna-stained hand in his, while he tried to urge her along without her twisting her golden-high-heeled ankles… I hope they made their flight.

• The shops. I fondly recall a small but wonderful little jewelry store at the old airport, which sold  silver-and-semi-precious-stone pendants, necklaces, bracelets and ear-rings in creative Indian designs. There were a few other handicraft-type shops, selling silk scarves and Indian clothing. All of them were pretty busy. The shops in this airport are the typical glitzy big-Western-brands, and they were empty. One little kiosk (called Kala Yatra, if I recall correctly) was crowded: It had the Indian style jewelry and scarves, though not the selection and quality that the old shops at the old airport had.

• The art. Initially, I was pleasantly surprised. The old airport had a wonderful frieze by Hussain, and I’d sort of hoped it had been preserved. If it was, I didn’t see it. But they had some great new paintings by Paresh Maity in welcoming shades of red. When I went downstairs, though, I was accosted by a huge display of hands in various mudras (hand signs). The gigantic hands were silvery plastic — or so it seemed — and were mounted on a background of copper-colored discs. It looked like the worst of 1960s public decor. Later, I saw similar over-sized sculptural artifacts elsewhere in the airport. This is *so* not the best India has to offer. Someone help!

THE MUCKED UP

• Things that don’t work. One of the travelators was out of order, which I would have minded less if it hadn’t been part of the Long Trek to Gate 13. Several of the vending machines had Out of Order signs on them. One that didn’t whined and spat out every note I tried to feed it. I finally found one that did work, but it had a different and less interesting selection of flavored potato chips…

• Missing personnel. So my flight from Bangalore arrived in Delhi at 10.30 p.m. It was crowded; many people were morning/ evening commuters. It took a while to get off the flight, but eventually we all deplaned, hurried down the passenger walkway… into a dead end. The door was locked. The person who was supposed to open it wasn’t there, gone for a coffee or something. We waited. Eventually, someone walked back to the plane and told the staff, and perhaps they radio’d someone, I don’t know. Anyway, they eventually let us out, after a 10-15 minute wait. “This happens regularly,” said one of the commuters. He sounded experienced.

• Software snags. More seriously, they haven’t got all the bugs out of the air traffic control system, which has had technical glitches for some months now. It wasn’t reassuring to read, the day before I traveled, this headline: Ten tense minutes that tested Delhi ATC. The article that followed blithely assured us that in January, the Flight Data Processing System had gone down and air traffic controllers had taken over, guiding flights manually. “We are handling close to 750 flights at IGI Airport every day and definitely need a more reliable system,” the article quoted an official as saying.

Anyway, this time I resolved to Be Prepared. I called my cellphone provider. Yes, they had coverage in India through roaming agreements. It would cost $10 per month for global roaming, and then another $2.29 per minute for each call. Incoming or outgoing. (And if I wanted text messaging, it would cost $20 per month, plus 20 cents per message.) Yow. Someone I know had run up a $1000 phone bill after a short trip to India. Now I understood how.

Anyway, I enabled it. What choice did I have?

That’s what I emailed friends in India to find out. One said, “No problem, we’ll just change the SIM card. You’ll have an Indian phone. We can do it at the nearby stationery store.” Another said, “The best option is to buy an Indian phone. You’ll need ID and an Indian address.”

So I landed in India and strolled down to the nearby market with my friend who was hosting me. (One thing I love about India: All these little markets with shops providing pretty nearly everything, walking distance from most peoples’ homes.)

The first idea was a non-starter. “US phone?” The stationery store man shook his head sadly. “The wave-length is different.” He tried anyway, but it didn’t work. He restored my US mobile phone to its pristine $2.29-per-minuteness, and pointed to the mobile phone shop, a few stores over.

They were in the process of cleaning behind their display cabinets, which had been moved to the center of the tiny shop. We offered to return later. “No, no, no problem,” said the man in charge. We maneuvered around the displaced cabinets, the man with the broom, the man helping him, and wedged ourselves into a small space near the counter.

Once we’d explained the problem, he promptly pulled out the cheapest Nokia phone, and a contract. I needed ID, which was provided by my passport. I needed a local address and a local sponsor, provided by my friend. (“It’s because of the terrorism,” she said. “They didn’t need all this before.”)

WHY YOU SHOULD GET AN INDIAN CELLPHONE IN INDIA

The phone cost Rs1350 (or the next model up would cost Rs1600), the SIM card Rs 100, and I added Rs500 of prepaid minutes. Calls cost only a few rupees a minute, whether local or international. He could bill it to my US credit card, no problem. So for a total of US$45, I was all set. (The exchange rate is around US$1=Rs45.)

No $1000 cell-phone bills for me. The only thing that’s wrong with this phone is the barrage of junk-texts. Thank goodness we don’t have text-spam in the US.

[ETA: Apparently, I had another option - to take a US phone on which the contract had expired, after getting it unlocked. Check the comments to this post.]

And of course, like all festivals and their celebration, it’s always involved a goodly amount of work. Christmas cards, which I wrote to all my far-flung friends, including individual letters to each of them. Locating a good source for a tree. Appropriate ornaments. The complexities of present-buying.

It’s so much easier now. Part of it is just being up the learning curve; for a change, I haven’t been moving cities or countries or continents. I know where to buy a tree, where it goes in the living room, what decorations go outside, what shows to see this season and the most efficient way to get there. Part of it is accumulation; we didn’t need to buy a single ornament this year, we probably have enough to decorate four decent-sized trees.

But the most important factor is the Internet. Want to see a show? The description and reviews are online, and when you want to book a ticket, the layout of the seats is online, too. (We saw, very traditionally, A Christmas Carol and the Nutcracker Ballet.) Check which restaurants are open on Christmas Eve? That’s there, too. Send greetings? Email or Facebook — or some of the wonderful and clever animated cards, varied enough that you can find one that’s particularly appropriate. (I use Jacquie Lawson, which doesn’t have ad-spam or sell email address lists to spammers. But what’s really important is that, thanks to the internet, I’m in touch year-round with these friends and don’t have to rely on annual updates.)

Most importantly… We did all our gift-shopping online. It’s quite marvelous, if you have a fairly good idea of what you want. It provides a far better selection than almost any mall or department store, you can shop at any time. (I’m a night owl, myself, and 3 a.m. works for me.)  It’s like magic: all the presents land up on your doorstep in convenient cartons. Slit them open, remove the receipt and price-tags, wrap, install beneath tree.

Of course I do visit the malls, just for the decorations and the buzz and the impulse purchases… but the pressure’s off. It seems strange that 10 years ago, I couldn’t imagine shopping online for anything but books or videotapes. (I was a really early adopter of Amazon.)

Today, if I need something specific — information or products –  it’s several orders of magnitude easier to find it on the web than hunting through libraries or phone-books or stores. I firmly believe this is the greatest invention in my lifetime.

(It’s strange, then, that I don’t have a smart phone. I’m the only holdout in my family. I think technology is like chocolate. Love the stuff, but I need to pace myself or I’ll get indigestion.)

According to a report in the Mumbai paper Mid-Day, it all started during the great volcanic flight disruption, when the Icelandic volcano spewed enough ash to halt or muddle air traffic across Europe for several days. In the process, an Air India flight bound for Canada via Frankfurt got diverted to Cairo.

The opportunity presented itself, the temptation was overwhelming. The crew went to see the pyramids.

I’ve seen the pyramids and they are awe-inspiring and mind-boggling in scale. (In the picture, the little patch below the plane’s left eye is actually a huge gateway.)  So I understand the feeling.  But…

But the plane with pilot and passengers waited for the sightseeing crew. Sixteen hours, according to one account; five according to another.

Air India admits the incident and promises “stern action”. One of these days, it’s going to find itself on Saturday Night Live.

But that’s not what I want to write about today. Today, it’s kudos to the Microsoft security people based in Chennai.

My computer had been colonized by the Alureon CT trojan, or actually rootkit . I didn’t even know: Norton Internet Security, (which is what I had) doesn’t see it, let alone block it. Then one day, someone suggested downloading Microsoft Security Essentials. It found Alureon CT, cleaned the computer, and then suggested I restart the machine. I did. And within minutes, Alureon was back.  (Norton still showed nothing amiss.)

Rinse and repeat.

The infection explained some weird things that had been happening – like search hijackings, where clicking on a link took me someother-place.com. I’d attributed it to my computer aging and becoming incompatible with updated search engines. The thing is insidious; it keeps very quiet, but  it can steal passwords and make your computer part of a network outside your control.

I also found that getting rid of Alureon was Not Easy. Someone on one forum opined “formatting and reinstallation of the operating system is the only sure way…“

Someone else suggested opening a support file with Microsoft.  “Start here – https://support.microsoftsecurityessentials.com/ and select the link that says I think my computer is infected and then select the support option for phone (or email if phone is not offered for your region).”

So I did. Within minutes, I was in touch with their 24/7 phone help, given a case number and immediate assistance. “Nanda” shared my computer, performed a scan, emptied my temp files and cookies, and pronounced it cured.  But it wasn’t.

I e-mailed him (the engineer who’s been helping you provides an e-mail address) that it wasn’t working, and sent them a link to a particularly dire article on Alureon. I assumed the only solution was to go off and rebuild my computer with much cursing.

Well, Microsoft called back. The case isn’t closed until the problem is fixed. They wanted to give it a second try. This person had actually heard about rootkit infections. “I am going to run Kaspersky’s tdsskiller,” he said.

“I read that Norton, McAfee, Kaspersky, none of them work,” I argued, annoyed. This was going to be another afternoon of rote, by-the-book attempts. “I read that I have to rebuild.”

“Yes,” he said. “But sometimes the people on the forums are not aware of special programs like tdsskiller. I believe we can clean your computer without having to reinstall the operating system.”

I had nothing to lose, so I stood by while “Allan” took over my computer.

What do you know? It worked. I ran a full MSE scan, which took 2.5 hours. My computer was clean. Now, 36 hours later, it’s still clean.

I told my brother, who’s been active in the outsourcing space. “Those young people in Chennai,” he said. “They’re good.”

Yes. They are.

Thanks, Nanda, Alan/ Arul, and all the folks on the forums.

——–

[ETA: Some people still think it makes sense to reinstall the OS even after Alureon has been removed, because Alureon could have allowed undetected malware including keystroke loggers to lodge in the computer. As a precaution, I'm not using this machine for anything sensitive.]

———

When Haagen Dazs, the super-premium ice-cream company owned by the US corporation General Mills, recently announced it would be opening its first store in India in New Delhi, they probably weren’t ready for the internet sh*tstorm that was about to descend.

Someone sent me an article from a Times of India blog. The Haagen Dazs ice-cream franchisee in Delhi decided on a grand opening that involved a special preview for international travelers: “Access restricted only to holders of international passports.” Those international passports did not apparently include Indian ones; when the blogger’s friend “Ramit” tried to enter, he was turned away.

It’s already up on Boing Boing, one of the internet’s most influential blogs.

Foreign companies do sometimes make mistakes in their assessment of Indian markets and consumers. It’s usually carelessness or cultural obtuseness. This time, though, the problem seems to be home-grown. The franchisee is Indian; the location is Indian; and the man reportedly denied entry is Indian.

The embarrassment is truly multinational. The internet knows no borders.

———

For companies, it suggests that apart from avoiding self-inflicted wounds like this one, it also makes sense to have a corporate policy for dealing with any issue that is likely to capture the public eye. There’s no such thing as far away.

Between blogs, social media, and people willing to “boost the signal”, it is impossible to *contain* such problems. They have to be responded to, and defused.

Right now, apologies would be good. And maybe some explanation: What was the man thinking?

There isn’t anything on the websites of Haagen Dazs, or of General Mills, as of Dec 15th, anyway.

———

Followup: An article in India’s Economic Times, says the local manager claims it was all a mistake. The banner was supposed to imply that the ice-cream would be bringing a European flavor to India (though the brand is a US one.) And apparently Ramit was excluded not because he was Indian, but because the store was too crowded. Tempest in a teacup or frantic damage control? Difficult to tell, but better than nothing.

———

2nd Followup: Anu Bhatia, of General Mills India, sent us this response (click on “read more”)…

Dear Ms. Bose,

At the outset, we thank you for writing to us, and appreciate your message. There have been some reports on various online media alleging that the recently opened Häagen-Dazs shop in New Delhi, India, denied access to Indians. We vehemently and categorically deny this. Häagen-Dazs products and our Häagen-Dazs shop in India are and will always be for our consumers in India.

The recently opened Häagen-Dazs shop is open to one and all, and there’s no question of barring entry to anyone on any basis. The preview on Thursday, 10th December had a morning media event which was attended by journalists of repute from Indian media. The same evening we had a launch party for our friends and families, less than 5% of whom were foreigners. Also, during the mock training days at the shop leading up to 10th December, a lot of interest was generated and hundreds of walk-ins were given free samples of our ice cream. The store is now open to all public and seeing brisk business.

The poster in question was part of initial local store communication at a few locations within the same mall announcing the opening of the new Häagen-Dazs shop in the mall. The message was intended to suggest that you can enjoy, for instance, a taste of the French Riviera without traveling to France – by enjoying Häagen-Dazs. Unfortunately the reference to the international passport holder on the poster may have led to a significant miscommunication. This was completely unintended. It was a wrong choice of words, and we regret the error. We sincerely apologize for creating this misimpression that may have hurt our sentiments as Indians.

Regards,

Consumer Relations Manager, General Mills India

They have no way to track where Voice over Internet (VoIP) calls originate.

So, according to a report in the Times of India, they’re asking the Department of Telecommunications to block international VoIP calls until they figure it out, (if they ever do). What this means is that for India, the era of nearly cost-free communication by internet telephony may be over. The same article cites a report that said there were 130 million minutes of such calls in a single quarter, Jan-March 2009.

Personal communications will probably be impacted more than corporate ones, since most VoIP users are presumably individuals rather than companies, and companies can respond by increasing communication budgets. Still it’s difficult to imagine that companies will be unaffected. For some, it may raise the cost of doing business.