The red carpet

There is a plantation near Shimoga in Karnataka.  This plantation is owned by an uncle of one of my friends. One night at around midnight, a band of armed Naxalites barged into the plantation and demanded to talk to him. They charged that the workers on the plantation were not being treated properly. The said that the workers were being paid too little. The uncle asked them what they thought the appropriate pay would be. They said that the workers should be paid atleast Rs 100 per day. The uncle then replied that he was prepared to pay Rs 150 per day, and even then he faced difficulties finding workers. And when one was found, he had to be pampered by arranging transportation to and from the plantation. He then asked the Naxalites to send anyone they knew who was looking for work to his plantation. The Naxalites weren't seen again.

I don't know how much of that story is true. But reality wouldn't be far off the mark. I guess such stories show this as a version of paradise to people elsewhere who are prepared to toil for Rs 35 a day. And what would anyone do when told of paradise? Try to go there. And why wouldn't they. The people already there have every reason to prevent more from coming. And then you hear stories of Bangaloreans trying to prevent people from immigrating to Bangalore.

The Bangalore I was born in was a very different place. A sleepy provincial town famed as the Pensioners' Paradise. But the times have changed and how. The Bangalore of today is a very different place and trying hard to keep up with the times. And I believe that is for the best. Cities that failed to change with the times are the ones now under 10 metres of sand. Long forgotten except as footnotes in history textbooks. When people come to a city from far off places, they bring with them their culture, their experiences and their points of view. All this gives a healthy shot in the arm to the locals. It keeps the ideas flowing and the city fresh. Kannada slang would have been considerably poorer without the Tamil influence. Andhra spice made the food that much richer. Those that deny outside influence and experience are the ones that miss out on the party. To enjoy the experiences of other cultures, one must, I believe, have confidence in one's own. People who choose to surround themselves with walls, to exclude others in the name of preserving their own, face stagnation and isolation.

Ruined and empty. And not a soul in sight. Is this what they mean when they talk of dead cities? If so, cities throbbing with people surely aren't dead. Then I suppose reports of Bangalore dying have been greatly exaggerated. It is people that build cities, not the streets and buildings. And I don't think that there would have been any place for the young in the Pensioners' Paradise. I want to live in a place with life, not a place where people come to die. So please, do come to Bangalore. And bring your family and friends too.

The point of life

Astronomers have long debated the existence of life on other planets. That whether it exists at all. And even if it did exist, would we even realise it. Given that the sheer number of star systems out there, and the variety of environments in which life thrives on our own planet, the probability of other life in the universe is definitely non-zero.

In the beginning, we assumed that the distance of the planet from its star was the most important factor in determining the existence of life. After all, all life on the Earth's surface depends on the Sun and its energy. Too near to the Sun, and we would burn, and too far, we would freeze. But, now we know of life in the depths of the ocean. One could of course argue that the life in the depths depend on the fallout from the surface.

But what about life near the hydro-thermal vents. Life that depends on the Hydrogen-Sulphide released from the volcanic depths. They certainly don't depend on the Sun. And the bacteria discovered two kilometers deep in the Earth's crust, buried away from the energy from the Sun? Now, we no longer see the distance between the planet and its star as the deciding factor. But all these life-forms depend on the existence of liquid water.

As we were recently bound by the notion that the planet-star distance was paramount for life, we are now bound by the notion that presence of liquid water is paramount. But, as science proceeds, this notion may also be proved wrong. This may not be possible on Earth. But, very possible on other planets and their satellites. This presents us a problem. If were are strongly bound by our preconceived notions, would we recognise life if it were found in environments were these notions fail? Would we know it when we see it?

Some scientists have thought about this problem. Is the deciding characteristic movement? The trees certainly don't move. Could it be that they breathe Oxygen? Anaerobic bacteria certainly don't require it. Scientists have struck upon the idea that whatever may be the life of an organism, the most definitive factor that proves their life is that they reproduce. Being able to reproduce it was makes life Life.

René Descartes once said "Cogito, ergo sum". But this applies only to animals we know to think. This statement does not apply to all life. The universal truth should have been "Coito, ergo sum". This statement applies to all life, thus reducing Cogito, ergo sum to a mere corollary.

Footnote: There is a small programme that comes for Linux called fortune. This spits out funny one-liners on request. Excellent for procrastination. Anyway, the statement "Coito, ergo sum" was one of the one-liners. That got me thinking, etc... etc...

Groping in the dark

The Economist had once published a special report on India titled, "An elephant, not a tiger". A very good read. It goes into various details on the achievements, challenges, screw-ups, etc, etc... But, that is beside the point. The point is that several blind men are trying to figure out what this elephant looks like. Exactly like the poem.

Its filled with dirt, filth and desperate poverty say those profoundly impressed by Slumdog Millionaire. India is a lawless backwater filled with beggars at every corner, abound with stories of police torture and corrupt politicians all within an excuse for a democracy. This is the real India. India has the world's highest number of malnurished children. Half the nation is living under back-breaking poverty. The stories of a rising power are just hogwash as they say. But are they wrong? Most definitely not. They are correct on every account. Poverty, corruption, lawlessness; there is plenty of those. And they are certainly real.

India is a rising power in Asia, with GDP growing at 8%, well atleast before the downturn, filled with young professionals say the industrialists trawling for investment overseas. Indians have bought over foreign gaints in steel and automobiles. It is one of the handful of countries to launch satellites, build nuclear submarines and supersonic jets. Those talking of poverty are living in the 60's. This is the new real India. The information techology powerhouse housed in gleaming glass towers in Hyderabad, Bangalore and Pune. We are coming, whether the world is ready or not, as they love to proclaim. Well, those definitely are real. The satellites, the submarines, the jets; they are all very real, aren't they?

India is the land of spiritual richness say the backpackers flooding to its shores. The land of religious harmony where all the world's religions find a home. The land of a culture spanning thousands of years, of remarkable diversity in languages, customs and lives. It is where one finds peace and the meaning of life. Those talking of poverty and wealth are missing the point. But what about all the riots and killings, ask the techies recently relocated to the phoreign. People are killing each other everywhere. The number of people killed every year by terrorism is second only to Iraq. The minorities are being repressed and the government ignores the fate of the tribals in the name of development. And even that development is a sham. Just like the mask of "Unity in diversity". That is the real India. And they are most certainly right.

The point is that they all are right. They are all talking of the real India. But the elephant is big and the men, blind. We all are.

Well, what do I think is India? It is a circus. A veritable three-ring circus. It is a land filled with acrobats dodging everyday traffic jams. Trapeeze artists dealing with the beaurocracy seemlesly jumping from one babu to the other. Lions when leaving under crushing poverty, lion tamers when not. A land filled with clowns dealing with religion and culture. And jugglers when trying to paint a picture of a beautiful India to outsiders. And the audience too, all enjoying the show. Isn't it that it is every little kid's dream to run away to the circus. Well, I am living in one.

In pursuit of Deacency

Limiting the number of bags you carry on a trip is a very useful tip. Ignoring that very tip caused me a Rs. 75000 headache. When you have two bags dangling from your shoulders, getting hurriedly off a bus to Mangalore driven by a manic homicidal driver may result in you not quite noticing that you are missing one. As it happened to me. That particular bag contained my camera, along with a new lens I had recently acquired all totally worth about Rs 75000.

After I, along with Subbu, Bhayak, Tho and Goobe, got off the bus, Goobe points out that I am missing a bag. My camera bag. By then the bus had already left. After the initial minute of panic, me and Subbu hail an auto and head to the bus stand where all the private buses halt. We reached there and began to hunt for the bus. Fortunately, Bhayak still had the ticket stub. The bus belonged to an agency called Deacent travels. We asked around the bus stand for the bus, but none knew where it was. It was certainly not in the bus stand. One fellow helpfully pointed out that if we could track down the phone number of the owner of the travels, we could find out where the bus was parked for the night to refuel. Also since the time was 9:30 pm, this would the last trip and the bus would still be in Mangalore. That gave us hope.

A little more asking around told us that the bus probably was headed in the direction of Pumpwell. At this point, me and Goobe head off to the police station to see if the police could track down the number of the agency. While Tho, Bhayak and Subbu jump into an auto and head in the direction of Pumpwell with no clue as to how to find the bus. Also a point to note, doing business with stoned auto drivers is not a good idea.

Me and Goobe arrive at the police station and file a report saying that I had lost my camera and the police set about trying to locate that illusive phone number. I actually recorded our entire conversation with the police on my phone just in case they tried something funny. But the were decent, almost to a fault. In the meanwhile, roaming from petrol bunk to petrol bunk, were Subbu, Tho and Bhayak. Tracking down the bus proved fruitless.

At this point Bhayak has a plan. When we studied in college, we usually booked tickets home from a travel agent in Surathkal named Santosh. Bhayak acquired his number through a friend in college and called him up. Santosh, we wonder at his contacts, called back with the number for the travel agency. The boys give him a call. The bus was parked at a petrol bunk in Kattara Chowki. They hurry over only to see the driver and conductor going through my bag. Subbu immediately runs over and claims the bag. The bag was dropped by my friend he says. They found it while cleaning they say. They hand over the bag while asking what it was and how much it was worth. Subbu artfully evades saying that it was his friend's and he didn't know. They hoped into the auto and called me to tell me that they had found my camera intact.

After withdrawing the report filed at the police station, me and Goobe arrive at the bus stand where we were to catch the bus back to Bangalore. As it so happened, we were to head back to Bangalore that very night by the 11 pm bus. We arrived at the bus stand at 10:45 pm. The whole ordeal had lasted only one and half hours. But this will be remembered for a life-time. Forgetting it may prove very expensive. A very grateful thanks to, in no particular order, Goobe, Tho, Subbu and Bhayak.

All things considered, it was a brilliant close to what could have been a disastrous weekend. Then again, as Bhayak put it, if we had ended up at Liquid Lounge as was originally planned, it would have resulted in us not remembering anything at all.

A repeat of history

Those that refuse to learn from their history are bound to repeat it. Some, on the other hand, are conned into it. And hence I came to watch Transformers: The rise of the fallen.

The original plan was to watch some other movie and tickets for that movie being less than available, I was some how convinced to watch this movie. My friend has that dark talent. Anyway, the movie title, for me atleast, is rather poignant. You see, I had presumed that the memory of the first movie had fallen through the drain cover of my memory to be blissfully lost forever. Unfortunately, it rose like the evil 'Decepticons' (again, really!) to haunt me again.

I really have no idea what the movie was about. Halfway through, I longed for a big bottle of vodka to soothe my nerves. I remember fits of hysterical laughter at some of the dialogues, hair tearing annoyance at the ridiculous music that was the background for equally ridiculous action scenes, with even more ridiculous slow motion scenes to heighten the "drama" of one metallic fist colliding with one metallic jaw. I have come to the realisation that I am doomed to watch all the installments of the Transformers franchise. Atleast the company with which I watched this movie was entertaining. It led to some very good spoofs. Like this for example:

Vivek S: My code is ready for review.
Manager: How do you know it works?
Vivek S: I know.
Manager: How?
Vivek S: Because I believe.

Sun, Slopes and Snow

And so we walked.

The slope was slippery with mud and rain. We grabbed the rocks desperately with both hands as we crawled upward. The progress was slow, but the end was in sight. The last exhausted heave brought Faul Pani into sight. All our exhaustion was washed away by the sight of a clump of tents precariously clinging to the slope as if gravity had been temporarily suspended. We fertilised the fields and got ready for supper.

And so we walked.

We crossed streams, rivers and ravines. We crawled under rocks. We climbed with our hands. We heaved ourselves stupidly on a grassy stretch. Zirmi was at hand. We were given the first sight of what was to come. What we all came here for. The peak was at hand. Later that evening, we greeted the arrival of the Hero of the Day. At night, an intrepid three of us marched into the pitch blackness of the night to the tent of the guides. It began to rain.We watched the rain drop-drop on the small fire that burnt through the rain. We watched the little flicks of the flame dance in step to their conversation. We understood not a word, but we knew the talks were happy talks.

And so we walked.

The pink of the rhododendron, the bright green of the fresh grass, the dark green of the pine needles, the dirty brown white of week old snow. We quietly filed past them all. The pines disappeared one by one. We didn't notice it. Next was the grass. We finally walked past the last of the rhododendron. We had our heads down and we put our feet forward. It was stupid of us. A thick mist enveloped us. The crunch-crunch of the snow beneath our feet was comforting as we cleared the mist and reached our camp. Tila lotni showed us the peak in all her beauty.

And so we walked.

Being the first to leave your foot print on fresh snow. Of fouling the virginal purity of the undisturbed soft white blanket on the ground. We exploited every opportunity we got. We walked and slid and slid and walked. We were sweating while our feet were freezing. We walked twelve hours in the bright snow. We finally crossed Sar pass and climbed Biskeri top. We slid down about a kilometre to hot chai waiting for us. And we made our way through thick pine forests to Biskeri.

And so we walked.

We lost our way. Some of us gave up and started blaming some of us who hadn't given up. People went in all directions looking for a way. We found one. Bandhak tatch welcomed us. The bright green of the grassland invited us to fertilise them. And we did, for the first time the temperature was above zero degrees. Some of us could work up the courage to. It was surrounded by gleaming white peaks like the tourist brouchers. We didn't want to leave but we had to.

And so we hope to keep on walking.

Devil Worshipers and other tales

It was a hot morning in Delhi, when the six of us set off for Shivpuri. A small village north of Rishikesh. The small Wagon R was cramped and the air-conditioning had little effect. After a breakfast at a small roadside eatery, we managed to arrive at Rishikesh at about one in the afternoon in spite of the fabled roads of UP. The drive to Shivpuri lasted another two hours through the narrow hill roads. Reaching there, we checked into one of the rafting camps on the banks of the Ganga. A hot wind blew across the camp slowly heating the already baking sand. Seven hours in the Northern sun had left precious little in us.

The first dip in the waters of the Ganga took my breath away. It was cold. Very cold. But it felt good. All around us, people were playing and swimming the the river. We stayed in the water for all of two hours, before hunger drove us away. After a very agreeable lunch, we were back with a vengeance. After swimming about some more, we lied on the bank and relaxed. All the while, we watched various pretty things splash around in the river.

Building sand sculptures was never my thing. But the weather was pleasant. The water was cold, the scene was pretty. I was intoxicated. And we took it upon ourselves to build a replica of the Pentagon. In the end, we achieved something that resembled a pentagon. At which point, we hit upon a bright idea. We would convert our pentagon in to a pentagram and conduct devil worship. We the proceeded to turn it into a convincing pentagram and began our devil worship with very convincing fake rituals. As that soon grew old, we decided to go to sleep for a while.

But we were soon interrupted by a loud commotion. Someone was calling out loud for the camp in-charge. We thought that it might have been the volley-ball that had got washed into the river. When we arrived at the scene, it turned out that it was actually someone who had gone under. He was part of a four people group on the bank, who were making merry, getting pleasantly drunk. And the person who had now gone under, had until then refused to get into the river. The camp people rushed to the scene and got rescue rafts circling the spots. As we talked to the people there, they expressed little hope that he would be found alive. All their talks were of when the body would surface and not of actually finding him alive. They told stories of many such incidents because of the strong eddy that pulled everything underneath it.

Flustered, we returned to the camp. Realisation dawned that that unfortunate fellow had gotten into the water the precise moment we had our little game of devil worship. He had until then refused to get into the water. We tried to rationalise that this was all just a freakish co-incidence. Perhaps it was. Yes, it was just that, a freakish, very unfortunate, co-incidence.

Escape from Noida

The hunt began in earnest on a cold December morning. Though the vague intent had been sown many weeks before, it solidified with the help of several stiff shots of vodka. The time was right. Yes, it will finally be as it was intended. The escape was inevitable. And now I had friends to help me and welcome me to my new place of refuge.

Along with my comrade-in-arms, Venu, the hunt for a home in New Delhi began. And with much thanks to a dear friend, Vikas Sood also from New Delhi, we landed quite a decent home near his locality. The rent was settled and we were to move in that weekend. The plan was made, the truck was hired and the packing started.

The truck arrived at Venu's place at 3:30 pm and at my place at 4 pm. We were done loading by 4:30 and we set off for Delhi and for our new home. There was, however, a tiny detail that the truck driver forgot to mention when we booked the truck. What he forgot to say was that from 5pm to 9pm, no commercial vehicles are allowed to ply on the roads of Delhi. We, the poor out-of-town people were quite ignorant of this fact. Perhaps the driver hoped to cross the Delhi border by 5pm, we would never know. But, what happened was this. At 4:45 pm, the driver pulled into a small side road off the highway and said he would go no further. And we were to wait there till 9pm.

To say we were pissed would be an understatement. We called the truck owner and gave him an earful. After screaming at him for about half an hour, and several conversations between the driver and the owner, the owner tells us that he is sending another truck. As to how this would help, we had no clue. But, something was being done atleast. After numerous arguments over where to meet, the other truck finally arrived and the luggage was transferred. The owner had come along with the truck. We asked the owner why he had sent the other truck and would that be of any help. He said, unfortunately no, but it was breaking his heart that he had sent such a big truck. Hence he had sent this smaller truck to take its place instead. The way he said that it was breaking his heart was so cool and unconcerned with our plight that it made us want to smash his head with a rock lying on the roadside. But, we controlled our anger. It was as if he thought that since we had already paid him part of the money, he could do what he wanted. It was just too bad for him that we hadn't paid all the money. He asked Rs 1750 and we had paid Rs 1000 upfront.

So, we were stuck in a place called Kichripur, near Gazipur. If you have heard of this place, please accept my sympathies. So what to do for the next four hours was the question. After bitching about the truck owner for about half an hour, we got tired of that. Then, we hit upon an idea. We asked the truck driver if he knew of a liquor shop nearby. He said he didn't. So, we set off in search. Asking every pan-wallah for the next kilometre, we arrived at a shop. We bought six large cans of beer and chips, returned to the truck and me, Venu and the driver enjoyed the beer in the truck. In the middle of our drinking we set off on a random conversation on what the best flavour of chips was with the truck driver. At the end of our second beer, we arrives at a consensus that Bingo, Nimbu Chatpatta, was the best. Thus throughly satisfied and pleasantly drunk we were when the clock showed 8:45 pm. It was time to head out.

We reached our new home with little incident. After we unloaded the luggage, we called the truck owner. We told him that since he had screwed up so badly, we wouldn't be paying him the remaining money. And since we had bribed the driver with beer, he didn't say a word in protest. The truck owner was furious and told that he would collect the remaining money from Venu's room-mates as the owner had come to Venu's house to check the amount of luggage. I told Venu of this threat at which he started laughing. He told me to tell the owner, best of luck. I told the owner that. After much exchange of words, we told the owned that we would pay him Rs 250 and that he could either take it or leave. We paid the driver the money, he thanked us for the beer and he left. At which point, our dear friend Vikas Sood, brought out two bottles of Royal Challenge whiskey from the bag. And the three of us, along with the broker who was a good friend of Sood, we had a sweet house warming party.

Hunger at 3 am is not a pleasant feeling. It becomes distinctly more unpleasant after copious whiskey. We needed food. So, we head to the ISBT, Kashmere Gate. We reached a small outdoor place at 3:30 in the moring and feasted on Pharathas. And we asked for tea, with ginger. When the tea arrived, the ginger was missing. When we asked about this, we were told that he was out of ginger. That was the last straw. We told the tea fellow that we would give a ride to the nearest sabzi-mandi where he could buy the ginger, and add it to our tea. After a much prolonged exchange, we finally settled for a 50p discount on the tea.

We finally returned at 4:30 in the morning and promptly passed out.

Like moths to a flame: A tribute to human stupidity

Adam Smith was wrong. Perhaps the thought was born of a long day experimenting with substances of questionable legality. The thought which single handedly gave raise to modern economics as we know it. Perhaps dear Mr. Smith was overcome by a sudden and overpowering idealistic fervour when he said, "Humans are rational beings". That was quite a grand statement. Though deep down every one of his peers knew that reality was to the contrary, accepting that humans were rational was quite flattering. We were after all at the pinnacle of evolution able to mould the environment to suit our needs. It was only rational to state that humans, as a species, were rational beings. As it spread, word became common sense, common sense became fact and fact became collective wisdom. And thus began the downward spiral.

One could attribute that stumble to the timing. During the days of Mr. Smith, the world was a much smaller place. The people moved in their own circles and perhaps Mr. Smith moved in circles in which a strict rigour of language was imposed on any discussion. Perhaps the wisdom of the day was that if you didn't have anything smart to say, you said nothing at all. This could have contributed to the delusion of rationality among humans. Had dear Mr. Smith lived to see the day when the world of people exploded to include the whole globe, the day on which dawned the Great Leveler, the day foreshadowed by the arrival of the Eternal September, would things have been different? Would the great thinker have received a shot of sobering reality to quell his idealistic fervour? We might never know. But we all were present on that day. The day the internet arrived.

The internet has had a strange effect on all of humanity. It and it alone has the uncanny ability to bring the idiots of this world out of the woodwork. Perhaps this is due to the inherent anonymity of the internet. Perhaps this is due to the enormous ego kick received by having your thoughts read by potentially millions. Even though all these are important factors, I believe the main cause for the sheer concentration of idiots on the net is because of a lack of a facility to name and shame stupidity. In the real world, if a person exhibits acute stupidity and thick-headedness, the word spreads and fast. Their name is instantly associated with stupidity and hence, their words ignored. But what is a name on the internet? Names can be changed to anything we choose in an instant and hence completely hide our stupidity under a new name.

Though in the real world the idiots are relegated to the margins, on the internet, theirs' is the loudest voice. The voice that drowns out all semblance of intellect. As in the case of religious nut-jobs. I'm sure every religion out there has their fair share of nut-jobs, but on the internet, it is their voices that are the most frequent and prominent giving all religions a bad name. Visit any forum, any comment thread, any chat room and it is stupidity that prevails. If you don't believe me, visit YouTube, that ever-growing font of human stupidity. They are drawn to it like demented moths to a flame. After all this, I must admit. I have been guilty of gross stupidity on the internet. But I, like perhaps you too, can rest assured. We are not alone. There are bigger and louder idiots out there.

Delhi Gastronomie and an in-flight radio

Weekends can be quite boring. Actually, very would be the correct term. And to make things more annoying, come Friday, everyone seems to be asking what my plans for the weekend were. As though they had made really fun plans. Perhaps, one day I must dare them to reveal their plans or stop with the questions. You can never really avoid weekends, they seem to keep coming every five days with amazing regularity. Apparently it has been doing so for several millennia now. There you have it, I'm trapped in this infinite continuum.

Break this continuum, I must. So, to Delhi I head. The only respite for the non-philistines among us within a radius of a 100 kilometres of my home. My head was filled with choice curses from atleast five different languages to heap on the Bluelines and their God forsaken drivers and conductors as I stepped into the home of a good friend, Haider Faraz, who henceforth shall be referred to as Zebi. And so, we set out into the night to sample the gastronomic delights offered by this brilliant city.

Alaknanda was not far from Hauz Khas where Zebi stays. We land at this little open air restaurant called Qureshi. This is the place to eat on those cold winter nights. I had been here before and I continue to be drawn to this place. The one among many excellent reasons being their chicken tikka. Ah! their chicken tikka. This little masterpiece will not just satisfy the most demanding of taste-buds, it will leave them salivating for more. My mouth waters just remembering that sinful delight. After the tikka was more happiness. The mutton khorma, the tangdi kebab and I could go on. But, I must stop. I could dehydrate myself from my mouth watering so much. Zebi, to me, will always be the guy who introduced me to the delights of Qureshi. To him, I am eternally grateful. As the old saying goes, "The shortest way to a man's heart is through the stomach". And, Qureshi has won my heart completely.

Satiated by the steaming plate of chicken tikka on that sinfully cold night, we enjoyed the ride back to Hauz Khas on an empty DTC bus happily eating a completely frozen ice-cream. As we stepped into the chillout lounge, Zebi's place that is, it was time for some blissful relaxation. Thanks to his computer being in a slightly worse condition than working, we surrendered to the charms of the FM radio stations of New Delhi. Zebi, the aspiring Accessory Designer, has turned his room into quite the trippy chillout lounge with a lamp of wicker. The little spots of light engulf the dark room giving it the ambiance of a space ship travelling a light-speed as shown in the cartoons. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking... Thus came a tiny voice over.

As we travelled from station to station, we came across this station playing Carnatic classical. The the sweet 15 minutes spent tripping on the notes of Carnatic classical, Zebi and me welcomed the dawn of the winter morning sun. As I left for Noida at 9am the next day, back to dreary old work in a dreary old town, the taste of the tikka still lingered on my mind. I shall be back soon, I told myself, hungry for more.