I’d like to thank:

• My Blog: Through you, I see me.
• My iPhone, the love of my life. You changed not only how I communicated with others, but how I communicated with myself.
• My Glass Desk and my Exec Chair: You stood so elegantly in my room and made me want to study.
• My Vaio Laptop: You’re so sleek and beautiful, thank you for gracing my desk.
• My house in Oakville: Thank you for being the warmth that I came to after endless nights of intense assignments, interviews, workshops and presentations.
• Twitter: Thank you for capturing my thoughts.
• Family: Goes without saying.
• Businessweek Magazine: For reaching my doorstep relentlessly and piling up before I got a chance to finish reading the previous one.
• Burlington: You bought my school so much closer to my house and made my commute so much easier.
• My Fellow Classmates. The MBA degree is meaningless without you.
• Non-MBA Friends: Couldn’t do it without you.
• Professors & T.As: Although some of you have purposely been forgotten, most others hold a very special spot in my heart. Dr. Head, thank you.
• CBCD: Thank you for the endless services in preparing us for the fierce workforce that stood before us.
• Co-op Managers:  You believed in me and let me take the stage when I didn’t even know what I was.

All these months, I waited so eagerly to be crowned with my graduation Hat and wear my MBA ring, not to declare that I finished  my MBA (because I think my degree will materialize after 5 years of work experience) but to see pride in the handful of people who blindly believed in me. I cannot wait to reveal my future to you.

Best of luck my fellow Graduating Classmates. Put on your shades, the future looks bright. 

Click to view slideshow.

The new Dubai is a city that was built on the backs of a massive working-class population primarily from the Indian subcontinent and from other not-so-wealthy areas of the Gulf. As a result, the ratio of men to women is 3:1. The local-born Emiratis make up only about 12% of the population of Dubai and are blessed with an abundance of wealth and endless government support. Sitting between the two groups is a rising group of westerners who appear to be the main audience kept in mind when continuing with the structuring of Dubai. What you have, as a result, in front of you, is an artificial city that is torn between what I call “different classes”.

Raised in Canada by parents who have never failed to treat everybody around them as equals, I am confused about Dubai and from what I see, all I can ask myself are questions about 2 major issues:

a)  ”Who are these people kidding by imposing such blatant discriminatory laws in the twenty first century and why are people like me tolerating it”?

b)”With the lack of a dominant culture, and utmost artificiality, how soon is Dubai going to collapse” ?

Let me explain my views: Imagine, every time there is server in a restaurant or a washroom-cleaner, a window-wiper or a simply a door-opener, the nationality of this person is almost always some form of South-Asian or Philippians and your brain can’t help but naturally create a stereotype. All of a sudden, you feel compelled to differentiate yourself through what you wear, the restaurants you go to, or even the “class” in the metro you sit in! Dubai makes the differences in wealth so blatantly obvious and frankly speaking you can’t blame anybody–Dubai just happens to foster a broader span of levels of wealth. Nevertheless, it hurts my ego to see people from my country working in such conditions where they are allowed to be treated as a ‘lower class’. It hurts to see people getting higher salaries merely because of the passport that they hold. It hurts to see that there is such a thing as a “Gold Class” in metros where you pay more and sit exclusively in a separate cabin where everybody else along with you also foolishly paid double of the regular price. It hurts to see “American, European ONLY” ads for renting apartments and when I ask them why they have such a preference, they say “its the European Guy/Girl who lives in that apartment who doesn’t want to live with any other nationalities” and Dubai will tolerate such requests.

Similarly, it hurts to see that in the city that I live in, I’ve never had a personal interaction with its locals. The question is, why make your culture so exclusive? From what I know, there is no culture that can live if it attempts to be exclusive. The beauty of any culture is to be all encompassing and so unbelievably generous that you don’t want to get out of it. In fact the beauty of Arab culture is characterized by the extents to which these people go to in terms of their generosity and hospitality. If you don’t meet the people how can you experience and become a part of their culture? The heartbeat of a city is generated by the people that live in it, but this place is void of a dominant culture and so it begs the question: how can you fall in love with  city that has no soul?

In all, Dubai is unreal. It is unreal in the sense that it beautifully incorporated the western and Eastern lifestyles, but failed miserably in upholding the values of either one.

P.S: I simply love working for my company and would never doubt my decision to join it. I look forward to revealing my future to you all. Here I come world, more driven than ever.

Istanbul. Turkey. Ottoman Empire.

No. The size, majesty and splendour of the Blue Mosque did not mesmerize me. Glancing at the chandeliers and the blue Iznik tiles did not enchant me. Walking past thousands of tourists, in fancy tour buses, watching them take pictures in their oh-so foreign attires did not in any sense reflect the glory or the significance of Istanbul’s incredibly rich history. Nevertheless, I refuse to walk into monuments from the 1600s and not be amused by it.

So I let imagination take control. The significance hit me when I pictured archeologists scraping off the Islamic embellishments of Hagia Sophia to reveal the mesmerizing Christian Ornaments hidden beneath. The significance hit me when I pictured the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire sitting on his bed-sized throne and turning the fountain on to drown the sounds of his secret meetings. I was eager to hear the deafening silence of the massive monuments, which simply didn’t make itself apparent with the onslaught of tourists. Its imagination that had to reveal the astounding beauty of Istanbul and when it did, it hit me hard. That is when I felt the frighteningly hollow heights of the mosques filled with the soft echoes of prayers and made me wonder how they had the man power to build such massive monuments. Its imagination that let me feel the sultan’s presence as my senses guided me into feeling the cool breeze while I rested in the Sultan’s garden.

Suddenly I started feeling the aura of the Ottoman Empire. Suddenly I started walking slowly, as though I was covered in heavy ornaments and had to carry the grace of the Ottoman Residents. Suddenly I felt the need to pull out a sword from nowhere and do something with it. Suddenly, I was beginning to feel it. With the blink of an eye, I returned to Istanbul 2012 and the magic and power of the Ottoman Empire disappeared. I checked the time on my Blackberry, clicked some pictures with my Canon camera and walked quickly to the tram and sealed my experience. But truly, the experience was in my head, the physical surroundings only helped the experience come alive. The monuments are very obviously deteriorating and visually, apart from the size and architecture, the monuments alone cannot mesmerize you. It’s the story behind it that truly does.

Some interesting things I learned during my tour:

• The more the number of minarets (slim tower rising from a mosque, ) in a mosque, the more prestigious the mosque was.  When the Sultan built the blue mosque with 6 minarets, he was questioned for why he would making something equivalent to the mosque of the Kaba in Mecca. The Sultan overcame this problem by paying for a seventh minaret at the Makkah mosque.
• The blue mosque was an architectural masterpiece as it miraculously upheld the great central dome by using four semi-domes. The architect who built the Blue mosque had it written on one of the arches of the structure about when the entire building would need a restoration process: that is how much foresight he had.
• When the Ottoman Empire took over, they also took possession of past Prophets like the sword of David, Muhammed, and Moses’s stick. Those things are stored in the Palace, available for public viewing.
• The Sultan’s Palace was built in a way that he could be spying on anybody through hidden tunnels. The sultan had a fountain next to his throne that he would turn on to drown the sounds of his secret meetings.
• Entering the gates of a palace with a horse symbolically meant to conquer the area. So in the Sultan’s Palace, you had to walk the entire length of the Palace rather than riding on a horse because by using a horse, you’d be declaring the Palace conquered.

Interesting, eh?

As for the people of Turkey:  I did not sense any strong Turkish pride from anyone I talked to. To forcefully transition from an entire Ottoman Empire that was spread over three continents to tiny Anatolia tells you how  trapped these people are under the weight of Turkey’s history. They’re nice people–heavy smokers. I enjoyed listening to their language, eating their food, and hearing them talk in broken English.

On another note, being back in Dubai, I had to write down my religion and religious sector on a piece of ID in UAE,  and it made me realize how backward we really are and how much more forward-thinkers those people of the Ottoman Empire really were. Hats off to it all.

Istanbul has mesmerized me. Both visually and culturally, this place is nothing like what I saw before. It is truly a refreshing experience. Almost nobody speaks English and it is uncommon to see an “Indian” face in this land of the Turks. As I write this, I realize that I may actually have Turkish Roots ( because my surname, Khan, was originally a hereditary title born by early Mongol leaders).

This is what my day was like in Istanbul, Turkey, today.

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Cloudy Day. Prayed Fajr early morning. My hotel room has wooden furniture and with the thermostat set at 25 degrees Celsius, the smell of the wood really  makes itself apparent–and I love it. I shower, get dressed and walk out to work.

On my way to work, I picked up this delicious rounded Turkish bread (known as Simit) with cream-cheese, tomato and parsley. I ate it in the balcony of the office, where the cool breeze gently blew over my head.

Traffic rules in Turkey, like in most Asian countries, are overlooked. While I am heading towards my office, I notice a guy behind me, running in the same direction as me. As I walked forward, I noticed he was walking in the same direction. He looked lost, like he was looking for something. He kept glancing at his phone. “Whatever”, I thought.  As I entered my office building, which is a 4-5 minute walk from my hotel, someone gently patted me from the back and handed over a piece of paper. I looked up and saw that it was the same guy who was apparently following me, and on this piece of paper was his name and phone number.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I request you all to give this guy a call and let him know “who” he actually tried to approach.

Because it was Friday, I decided to go for Juma Prayers. On my way, I heard “Assalato Wassalamo Alaika Ya Rasool Allah” and mistakenly took it for the “Call to Prayer” and showed up extra early for prayers. At the mosque, the ladies appeared to be pleasantly surprised to see me–maybe because I am such a foreign face, or because I am the youngest  person in the congregation. They try to talk to me and start by asking if I am Arab. I say no, ‘English”. “Ahhh, Americano”, they say to each other. I want to correct them to say that I am actually Canadian, not American or that I am an Indian. But I don’t bother explaining the details. Trying to communicate myself in English is next to impossible and my failed attempts make me burst out laughing every single time. After the Qutba (Friday Sermon), one of the older ladies walks over to me, asks me to put forward my hands and presses hers against mine and gives me a hug. I just say thank you and smile and everybody else in the mosque smiles at me-maybe because I didn’t’ do it correctly, or maybe because they continue to be amused by my foreign-ness. They seem like very nice ladies–not the type who would be judging me. I also notice that the Turks are not too concerned about segregating men and women. They walk in from the same entrance in the mosque. Turkish women in general appear very confident and well educated. Outside of the mosque is a massive hang-out area where men are sitting down, having Turkish tea, getting their shoes polished and chit-chatting. Its an incredibly beautiful atmosphere.

I walk out to grab lunch, and on my way notice a guy stopping in front me to let me walk ahead. I realize that this is going to be another case of ‘stalking’. I continue walking, acting oblivious, but fully conscious of what’s going on around me. After 5-10 minutes of walking behind me, he catches up and says something in Turkish. I laugh and clearly say that ” I have no idea what you just said, I don’t speak Turkish”. My idea is to always convey maximum confidence in whatever I say or do. I live with this understanding that nobody can mess with me as long as I convey confidence in who I am and what I think of myself. I don’t care who on this planet frowns upon me or my nationality or who praises me. At the end of the day, it is for me to decide my self worth and no matter how much someone praises me or insults me, they don’t make me. Anyways, this guy eventually asked me for my phone number and eventually gave up. Nobody messes with Miss Khan.

I take on an adventurous mode, and decide to hop on the metro. The metro seemed to be buried really deep in the ground: I had to go down four incredibly long and steep escalators (positioned at 45 degree angles).

I used the underground metro, a subway and then a tram to get to the “Grand Bazaar”. I walked through an onslaught of Turkish Shops. I met with a calligraphy teacher who wrote down my name in various forms of calligraphy. I thought it was brilliant how he could write my name in so many different ways.

 I

I met with many store keepers. They call me “Lady” and their first question always is “Where you from”. Today the guesses were: Oman, Afghanistan, Tunisian, South Africa, Turkish, America, London, Pakistan, and India. When I ask a price, they say “For you, because you’re so beautiful, it is “##”".  You know folks, I have a very good understanding of beauties in this world and I consider myself very average. If anything, it is my personality and character that adds charm to face. So when someone calls me beautiful at first sight, I will not believe it 80% of the time.

I shop around till right before sunset when it starts pouring. To take advantage of the opportunity, you see people selling transparent umbrellas at every step. I head back to the tram to catch my train, which is actually very frequent (every 5 minutes), but fairly expensive. Once I reach my destination, I stop by to pick up dinner and while I wait for my dinner to be prepared, the gentleman at the restaurant serves me Turkish Tea, again.

I reach the hotel safely, alhumdulAllah. At the Hotel Reception, I meet my favorite Turk–he just happens to have a very chilled out personality–there is something so honest about him that it immediately puts you at ease. I feel surprisingly secure here in Istanbul. Looking forward to some more experiences and deeper reflections. Thank you Istanbul for shaking me enough to get me to blog again.

When reading the newspaper, do you ever start reading out loud, articulating all words clearly and precisely, as though you were a news anchor on a national news channel? I do.

Dressed up in heels, standing tall, did you ever picture your concrete floor transform into a runway? Taking command of the stage, standing tall, taking long strides, heel before toes, one foot directly in front of another, swinging your arms, brimming with confidence, looking straight ahead into your audience with the power and command like you will break anything that blocks your way? I do.

When stepping out of your car, have you ever pictured the floor beneath you turn into a red carpet? You place one foot out of the car and then present your entire self to what you think is an endless crowd, cheering just for you? Lumbering toward the paparazzi, you gently let your smile handle the energy? I have.

When shampooing your hair, or washing your face, do you ever read the details on the bottle like you were the official spokesperson for the product? I always do.

 There is not enough darkness in the world to put off the light that is lit inside you. Nurture that celebrity that resides in you.

Today we define illiterate people as ones who never went to school for formal education. Illiterates in the 21st century, however, will have education, but they just won’t know how to manage the flow of knowledge. Let me explain:

Back in the day when a spiritual teacher and his students began their evening meditation, a cat who lived in the monastery made a peculiar noise that distracted them. One day the teacher ordered that the cat be tied up during the evening practice. Years later, when the teacher died, the cat continued to be tied up during the meditation session. And when the cat eventually died, another cat was brought to the monastery and tied up. Centuries later, learned descendants of the spiritual teacher wrote scholarly treatises about the religious significance of tying up a cat for meditation practice.

There are so many similar instances that we can think of that continue to be a part of our lives when they were actually never meant to be. Some people have the courage to question such practices and it is that courage that gives rise to a social change-an uproar. Once people start questioning previous assumptions, the new ‘thinking’ will most likely not dissipate. It will linger around at the back of people’s mind till action is taken. Social change just needs a beginning. Anything-a tweet, a viral video, or a photograph.  I am genuinely looking forward to the rest of 2012-looking forward to witness and maybe even become a strong part of a new and exciting social change that changes the way people live.  I want to see people questioning not only `why the cat was being tied up`, but why it was there to begin with.

Remember, the illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and re-learn- (Alvin Toffler). Next time you see a cat being tied up, make sure you ask why.

Bruce: “We’re going to go five.”
Me: “Bruce, I can’t go five. I’m a helluva lot older than you are, and I can’t do five.”
Bruce: “When we get to three, we’ll shift gears and it’s only two more and you’ll do it.”
Me: “Okay, hell, I’ll go for it.”

So we get to three, we go into the fourth mile and I’m okay for three or four minutes, and then I really begin to give out. I’m tired, my heart’s pounding, I can’t go any more and so I say to him,

Me: “Bruce if I run any more,” –and we’re still running-”if I run any more I’m liable to have a heart attack and die.”
Bruce: “Then die.”
It made me so mad that I went the full five miles. Afterward I went to the shower and then I wanted to talk to him about it. I said, you know,

Me: “Why did you say that?”
Bruce: “Because you might as well be dead. Seriously, if you always put limits on what you can do, physical or anything else, it’ll spread over into the rest of your life. It’ll spread into your work, into your morality, into your entire being. There are no limits. There are plateaus, but you must not stay there, you must go beyond them. If it kills you, it kills you. A man must constantly exceed his level.”

I can recall days in my past when I could run forever at very high speeds. This ‘Running plan’ is my attempt to regain that ability. 

1. Week one: Walk for six minutes, then jog at an easy pace for one minute. Repeat three times. Aim for three sessions with that same sequence for week one.
2. Week two: Walk for five minutes, then jog for two minutes. Repeat three times. Aim to do three sessions in week two.
3. Week three: Walk for three minutes, then jog for four minutes. Repeat four times. Aim for three sessions in week three.
4. Week four: Walk for two minutes, then jog for five minutes. Repeat four times. Shoot for three of those sessions in week four.
5. Week five: Walk for two minutes, then jog for eight minutes. Repeat three times. Do three of those sessions in week five.
6. Week six: Walk for two minutes, then jog for nine minutes. Repeat three times. Try to do three sessions for week six.
7. Week seven: Walk for one minute, then jog for 11 minutes. Repeat three times. Do three sessions this week.
8. Week eight: Walk for five minutes to begin and end the workout, and run for 20 minutes in between. By the end of the week, try to run for 30 minutes without stopping.

1) The night before leaving my Uncle’s house, we were having a big family dinner. My uncle said that he could feel my grandmother’s presence in the room. I could too. My uncle’s kids tend to cry at night: occasionally they see my grandmother at night. In that beautiful house filled with my grandmother’s memories, I could not only feel her presence, but felt an overwhelming amount of energy, pushing me from outside. My restlessness kept me from staying on my seat and carried me forward, taking me into the entrance of the house, where I used to play Carrom board with her. As I walked over, I was terrified of looking around, so I quickly turned around and went back to the dining table-I was afraid. I was afraid I would actually see her. She passed away a couple of years ago.

2) Together with my parents, I went to my Dad’s friend’s house who was probably 20-30 years older than my Dad-and a huge inspiration for him. His conversations were always based on concepts and ideas. I had insisted earlier that I wanted to meet him. His daughter, who passed away, was the same age as me. I had no personal connection to this man, he was merely my Dad’s friend. But I was amused by him. I could just listen to both of them talk. When I wasn’t listening to their conversation, I was admiring how beautifully the two got along. Once again, that day, when I was leaving his house, I felt an incredible amount of energy from my surroundings.

In both situations, I felt the urge to cry because there was too much energy in my surroundings and energy always needs an outlet to project itself. The question is, where was that energy coming from? Were there spirits in the room? Am I sensitive to spiritual energy? It is definitely something worth pondering upon. I just know that I need to learn to direct, project and command energy.

Growing up, my sisters and brother decided to start our own bank: The Khan Bank. Members of the bank were aged 2-10. A beautiful logo depicting a feather with an ink bottle was created and pasted on our bedroom door (Yes, we were fond of ‘classy’ things at that age).  All money was deposited in a ‘drawer’ of our dressing table. From what I recall, the total amount was below 20 Riyals.  The sole borrower was “the brother”. The bank was bankrupt within 7 days of opening. Nobody ever got their money back.

Lesson Learned then: None. Money Saving is not an attitude at that age, we didn’t really need a bank. I doubt my older sibling’s intention with that bank in the first place. What were they thinking?

He says:
“Many of my students saw Harvard as a privilege, but others quickly lost sight of that reality and focused only on the workload, the competition, the stress. They fretted incessantly about their future, despite the fact that they were earning a degree that would open so many doors. They felt overwhelmed by every small setback instead of energized by the possibilities in front of them. And after watching enough of those students struggle to make their way through, something dawned on me. Not only were these students the ones who seemed most susceptible to stress and depression, they were the ones whose grades and academic performance were suffering the most.”