|Home | Issues | The Daily Star Home | Volume 4, Issue 22, Tuesday June 5, 2007|
Sleeves in action
Hide body imperfections:
Pear shaped or bottom heavy
Sleeves are an integral part of style. You can very easily dress them up or down. It finally rests on individual tastes. I recommend you stick to shapes that fit you best or that stick to your comfort zone.
Cheques are primarily of two kinds, 'bearer' and 'order'. A bearer cheque is a cheque that can be paid to the payee or the bearer of the cheque. The payee/beneficiary can allow payment made to a bearer. The right to the cheque is freely transferable from one person to another.
An order cheque is payable to the payee or to his order. This means the customer wants the bank to make a payment to the named payee or to the order of the payee. The payee will write his intention with a signature (endorsement) on the back of the cheque. The bank will pay on identification and regular endorsement to ensure that the true holder has received the payment. This mode of payment therefore, is safe and secure.
What is the benefit of payment in a cheque?
Why should one issue an order cheque and not a bearer cheque?
Is a crossed/order cheque payable over the counter?
Which cheque is payable by the bank?
By The Way
To speed up your computer, run regular check-disk utilities and frequent disc clean-ups. Also free up space by deleting the cookies and temporary Internet files. Erase programs and shortcuts from the desktop that are redundant.
Under A Different Sky
Rethinking our routes
I arrived yesterday. It was hot and humid and I could smell the sea with a plane full of Germans, Brits and Turks and a token me. A few Turks covered in hijab and a few more liberal than Paris Hilton in Paris. It took long, a stretch of eight hours of flying and another two to complete the whole way. And I arrived, without a visa, but with a 20 dollar bill ready in hand with my passport I stood in line with other tourists to get a stamp of approval that I was legal here for the next 90 days (only if I could stay that long). I looked up to see the different rates according to the country you are coming from that you have to pay to obtain a visa. And Bangladesh was not up there; neither was India, or any other countries that we claim to be part of the “subcontinent”. Do South Asians not visit here, I wondered. Before the end of that thought I reached the end of the line. The man took both, my passport and the $20, and with a smile greeted me, “Merhaba, welcome to Turkey.”
Like a pretentious fool, before hopping on the plane from DC, I picked up a book called “Istanbul” by Orhan Pamuk, a man with a Nobel Prize in literature. It wasn't really my fault. That really was the first book my eyes set upon when I walked into the book store at the airport. And I held on to it for the next 15 minutes trying to decide which book I should buy while I head over to Istanbul. “Istanbul” competed against a few others, and won. So I tried to let go of how obvious I was seeming and I started reading “Istanbul” and within the first few pages I found out the author and I shared the same birthday, except he is 26 years older than me, and for some reason (well because sometimes the superstitious, searching, confused part me still looks for signs behind things that might just be a coincidence) I was convinced, this book and this trip will have a greater meaning to me than I imagined them to have.
When I got on the taxi to head over to the hotel, I couldn't help but compare Dhaka and Istanbul. The road really looked so much like our airport road from Uttara leading into the city. But then again, I can't ever help myself from stopping and comparing Bangladesh with any place I visit, from the dark corners of DC to the bus stations of Russia. So I told myself maybe this time, I won't compare as much as I will try to learn. So far I have not been successful. Dhaka keeps coming back to me, through the history of Istanbul and the history of the people and the narrow roads with broad smiles.
I had a high profile dinner last night. I am going to go ahead and sound more pretentious this time, perhaps intentionally. There is a point, no seriously there really is. It was a dinner with a few congressmen from USA and their wives- a US delegation currently visiting Turkey to work on some international relation, government affairs issues. I sat in front of a congress man's wife- a high maintenance lady with still a bit of southern sweetness, and they spoke, all of us, around me, in front of me, about Turkish Rugs, the Prime Minister, horses that race and horses that don't, Turkish tea, a good piece of meat, cancer and diabetes. And I realised strangely all of this hubbub that we all carry around, around the world, around the country, around the house, the talk of international relations, and government and war, in the end, are only us trying to figure each other out. It's about human relations and complexities. Maybe I was jet lagged. I surely was, and I couldn't tell where I was when I looked out of the restaurant towards all the green, Dhaka? DC? Istanbul?
I am sitting in front of the Bosphorus now, finishing up this below average column, but I will still keep writing, because today will be better than yesterday, I promise. Although, if you asked me yesterday, yesterday was still the best and I want to write, more…from this city by the sea that defines me, for now…just for a bit…
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