The anti-social butterfly

A departure from the normal

2012-01-11T22:47:00.002+05:30

As I sat in the corner of a sort of shady place in Bylakuppe slurping much sought after thukpa, I tried to recall how I had ended up at this place. The original plan was to end up about 500km east of there. In Pondicherry. But a combination of nature's fury and abject spinelessness had interfered. And so it was, that at literally the last minute, 7am on a drizzly Friday morning, we turned the two cars around and headed west from Bangalore. The first destination was to be a much raved about café on Mysore road. The website for that place claimed it open 24/7. Filled with a sense of a good beginning, and a wonder for what lay ahead, we set off at a good pace towards Ramanagara. But, the café had other things on its mind. It was closed. After much cursing at both the café and the guy who suggested the place, we proceeded towards Mysore. At the entrance to Mysore, an idea. Let's go to Bylakuppe, and the Tibetan settlement there. And why not, it was not as if we actually had a plan. Turning onto SH88, we the travellers, Veena and Kalpana, me, DS (Rahul), P (Vivekanand), Shravi (Shravan) and Monty (that's his real name) looked forward to the drive on the brilliantly twisty road that would eventually lead to Madikeri.

The drizzle, barely noticeable, came in bursts. With fellow driving aficionado, P, drooling at the wheel at the prospect of hitting the apex on every curve, we arrived at Bylakuppe in good time. A peek at the Namdroling monastery and a satisfying meal of momos and thukpa followed. Refreshed and satiated, and with me back at the wheel, we hit the road to Madikeri. It seemed like the logical next stop. The road was just exhilarating. Sharp twisting curves, smooth tarmac, and a close and thick canopy of trees on either side. A light drizzle, just enough to wet the road and colour it a dark shade of grey; a colour made for an evening drive through the mountains, with the bright green of the foliage and the shimmering golden-yellow of the setting sun providing a mind cleansing backdrop. With crash barriers on either side of the road filling me with confidence on these curvy mountain roads, I let go. DS in the back got to work on the music, and started to play a song by Shubha Mudgal and Swaratma. As Shubha Mudgal opened her voice, I opened the taps and left the cares of the world behind.

Finding a place to stay near Madikeri involved us calling every home-stay whose billboards we we saw on the road and asking if they were available. On the 30th of December, our hopes were slim, and we surrendered to a tough search. But Veena came through. After calling several home-stays, and getting more contacts from them, she finally managed to locate a place a few kilometres from Madikeri. A place in the middle of a coffee plantation, and far away from "civilisation". What followed next may best be described as cultured debauchery. A proverbial round table conference. With two confirmed sort-of-sober people who could drive the next day morning, the rest of us discarded all responsibilities. But, there was a catch. This place was available only for that night. We had to clear out the next day. We decided to worry about that the next morning. But morning came much quicker than expected. But, unfortunately not for me. My troubled dreams were filled with sounds of diesel locomotives at full speed. After breakfast the next day, we had to set off. But to where?

DS suggested Mangalore, and I suggested a route via Kasargod. I wanted to avoid NH48 at all costs. With P at the wheel in one car, again drooling at the curvy roads, and me in a state not quite awake, the road provided a very exciting drive. But at places. In other places, the road proved to be some sort of hell. But P certainly enjoyed hitting the apex on every bend. I took the wheel back at a town called Jalsoor, much to P's dismay, as I had heard of the brilliant road that lay ahead. And that was not an exaggeration. Driving on that road gave me goose bumps. And Kasargod came too soon for my liking. After a lunch of the most delectable prawn curry at a place called Hotel Metro in Kasargod, and binging on cheap petrol, we set off on the death trap also known as NH17. We thankfully reached Mangalore before dark. After a brief circus when DS's car refused to start, we stopped off at an ice-cream place called Cherry Square for some much needed refreshments. But accommodation for that night proved to be elusive. As we had nothing to lose, DS asked the owner if he knew of any available place.

He did know of a place which was available. It was his own serviced apartment, not two streets from Cherry Square. We lucked out. Again. After dumping our stuff at the apartment, and a mild refreshment later, we arrived at a pub called Froth on Top. This pub holds fond memories from my college days, and I still believe this is the best pub I have ever had the pleasure to drink at. That I was to spend new year's at this place was just beyond belief. Beer arrived. And it was drunk hungrily. More beer arrived. True we had to drive about 400km the next day via difficult and untested roads over the Charmadi ghats to get to Bangalore. But at that moment it didn't seem to matter. The clocked ticked ever so surely towards zero hour. And we waited, glasses in hand. Fireworks started going off around the pub, and revellers on the street drove by, horns blaring. The clock ticked closer. And we raised our glasses. Zero hour dawned, and as we drank MESCOM joined in the celebrations. With a power cut.

Trucks, buses and aeroplanes

2011-03-07T01:34:00.003+05:30

A slim crescent of the moon was visible just over the top of the nearby mountains. And a countless number of stars in the clear black sky. It was cold outside. So very cold. The mountains were just silhouettes against the ever so slowly brightening sky. Just jagged lines to your eyes, telling you where the land ended and the sky began. The patches of snow that weren't blown away by the gale of the previous night seemed like ghostly patches on the mountains, glowing faintly in the moonlight. A chilly wind blew unceasing, and my scarf was not up to the job. I tried to keep my nose and mouth covered and breathe through the scarf. Which ended up fogging my glasses. In an attempt to keep warm, I started to walk up and down the road desperately hoping for the sun to come up soon. The crunch of previous night's ice under my shoes while pacing on the road was soothing, but otherwise not of much help. The shivering came in bursts. And I pulled my jacket tighter. The wind seemed to find every patch of uncovered skin and chill it senseless. I seemed defenceless, and the wait hopeless. The sky seemed to brighten imperceptibly to an inky dark blue. A pale pink glow was just visible to the east. Hope dawned, though the day had yet to. The mountainside brightened to a barely visible yellow, and the patches of snow seemed to glow. Daybreak. The stars disappeared one by one, and lengthy shadows appeared. The tops of the mountains seemed like golden crowns on their massive shadowy bodies. But the sun wasn't yet seen. And neither was the bus.

The bus was supposed to have left Kargil at five. And It was supposed to be in Mulbek by six. The bus was a half an hour late. And I had been standing on the frozen road for well over an hour. I looked longingly down the road, and saw to my surprise a distant light. Headlights! Of a passing car. And yet no bus. I waited. A few minutes later, another pair of headlights. But this time of a passing truck. I could make out the outline of the truck from a long way off, and I stepped onto the side of the road to make room for it. The truck sped by, and screeched to a halt a short distance later. The driver called out, and I was surprised as I had made no sign of wanting a lift. Where are you headed, he asked. Leh, I said, and I am waiting for the bus. He laughed. The bus? he asked. Yes, the bus that left Kargil at five in the morning and expected in Mulbek anytime soon. Do you really want to place your hopes on the bus, he asked. And even if it did come, it would be full to the brim. He dismissed with a wave of his hand whatever I said afterwards, and asked me to hop on. Well, the driver's cabin would be much better than the cold of the outside, I rationalised, and hopped on. He said that he too was on his way to Leh, and offered to drop me off there. I sat on the seat in the cabin, and it was warmer. Though not for long. As the truck gathered speed, I realised that the cabin wasn't exactly insulated. Wind streamed in through the multiple holes and chilled me to the bone. Though not much warmer than the outside, I was definitely making progress towards Leh. And that was infinitely better.

The wind picked up and blew in the dust. But we didn't mind. As Bilal vigorously turned the steering wheel to take the truck round a bend, a surprising view. Perhaps the blackest mountain I had ever seen. And next to it was perhaps the reddest one. Dry parched earth appeared to come in a rainbow of colours. A few wild goats were to be seen now and then, feeding on the sparse vegetation. All around us were tall peaks, casting a pattern of light and shadow on the valley floor. The truck passed from light to shadow to light. And as soon as the truck entered the shadow, the cabin grew cold. Only to warm up in an instant as the truck passed into the light. I felt like a rat in a maze, being conditioned to follow the sun.

We probably wouldn't have noticed the little village of Khaltse, expect that about 24km from there, the highway was closed. Blasting work, said the man at the detour. And what a detour. The road was terribly narrow and mostly unpaved. The road descended steeply down the mountainside, and with a grand total of about 18 hairpin turns in the span of a couple of kilometres, the driving appeared terrifying. The truck on average had no more that three wheels on the road. And when a small car came in the opposite direction up the road, the manoeuvres had to millimetre precise. Bilal wondered how he would climb up this road on his return with a 15 ton load. Luckily for him, the road was set to open the next day. Back on the main highway, the road curved along with the pale blue Indus river. We reached Leh with little incident, and I got in touch with a travel agent who happened to be the uncle of a friend of a friend. I was put up in a very comfortable guest house, a small distance from the main town.

I was recommended a visit to the monastery at Hemis. A bus for which would leave Leh at about eight in the morning. Reaching the bus stand a half hour early, I failed to find the bus to Hemis. I, though, found a bus going to Karu, a town on the way to Hemis. I was told that getting shared taxis to Hemis from Karu would be easy. I climbed in, mostly to shelter from the cold outside. The windows were closed, and it was comfortably warm inside. I bought a ticket to Karu, and as the bus started on its way, the gentle rocking of the bus lulled me. I felt warm and cosy, and killed time staring at the unfolding scenery as the bus made its way to Karu. The monastery at Thiksey looked very imposing, and I made it a point to visit it on the way back. A little while later, I received a poke on my arm. It was the guy issuing the tickets in the bus. I looked up and he appeared very curious. Weren't you going to get down at Karu, he asked me. I replied yes and asked him why. We passed Karu an hour back was his reply. I had fallen asleep. And as I realised that, a chorus of giggles. Apparently the others in the bus had realised that too.

I asked where the bus was actually going. Sakti, he replied. Does this bus return to Leh, I asked. Yes, at three in the afternoon from Sakti was the reply. I told him I would pay for the ticket all the way to Sakti. The lone monastery at Sakti was closed, only to open at five in the evening. I couldn't wait that long. I took a walk to the village, and on the way passed a small glimpse of a winter wonderland. A small stream flowed merrily, and along its edges, tiny icicles. The stream was lined on both sides with trees sporting a pale yellow foliage. Apart form the gurgling of the water, no other sound was to be heard. Perhaps just the rustle of the leaves in the pleasant breeze. I entered the village and spied a vigorous game of cards in progress. I decided to be a spectator, and at a nearby tea shop ordered a bowl of Maggi and sat down to watch the game. After two bowls of Maggi, and a well earned reputation as a fearsome chilli eater, I boarded the bus back to Leh. I made it a point to stay awake, if only to see the scenery unfold in the afternoon sun.

With all passes over the Himalayas snowed in, an aeroplane offered the only exit from Leh. And the airlines were very well aware of the fact. Having paid an obscene amount of money for the ticket to Delhi, I arrived at the airport, and killed time sitting in the sun outside the terminals. After some time, news drifted in that the flight to Delhi would be delayed, and by a considerable amount of time. There was nothing else to do, but wait it out. As I roamed the grounds outside the terminal, I came upon an elderly British fellow hawking his kingdom for an aeroplane. Talk about inflation. A kingdom was once available for a donkey. A little trickery by the airline reduced the delay by a couple of hours, and a good three hours after the scheduled departure of the flight, I was issued my boarding pass. I was homeward bound. And I wasn't looking forward to it. I sat at the exit of the terminal, and a cold wind nipped at my face. I said my goodbyes to a life on the move. It was time to accept my return to still life.

Mountains and roads

2011-03-05T12:50:00.004+05:30

You have just crossed the Jogila pass and as the cold wind drives the chill right through to your bones, you look around. To your right are rows upon unending rows of snow covered mountains. With snow so thick that not a patch of bare rock or soil is visible. The mountains stretch gleaming white as far as the eyes can see. As you turn around, to your left are mountains so barren, that the small shrubs seen clinging to precarious perches seem a physical impossibility. Not one patch of snow, no matter how small, can be seen on those mountains. Just the unending browns and the dark reds of dry parched earth. Then you hear a tiny gurgling sound. To you right, just beside the road, bubbles a small stream. The water is the clearest and brightest blue, and you are tempted to dip your hands into the stream just for a sip of the pure mountain water. Reflected in the little puddles by the side of the stream is the clearest, bluest sky you have ever seen. Not even a wisp of cloud. And a blue so intense, that you wonder if any other blues were actually possible. A blue is no blue if not the blue of that sky. Eventually you tear your eyes from the stunning vistas surrounding you and look to the road. A road so smooth and so clear that it invites you to step on the accelerator and leave the cares of the world behind, and you do. Welcome to motoring wonderland.

The four wheel drive seemed pointless. The taxi had the worrying knack of going sideways just at the bends in the road where the drop to the valley floor was the deepest. The ice on the road didn't help either. And when the taxi skidded to an undignified halt in Drass, a small town some 40km from Kargil, I desperately stumbled out and blindly made my way to the nearest tea shack. Having had nothing to eat since the previous day afternoon, and seeing a kind of bun on sale, I gobbled it down. It was surprisingly tasty. Unexpectedly found in the second coldest permanently inhabited place on this planet. I hurriedly gobbled some five of the tasty buns and bundled myself into the taxi. It was far too cold outside. Slowly, the little stream by the side of the road turned into a strong gushing torrent, and little by little, the snow covered mountains disappeared. The sandy browns of the barren mountains became the dominant colour, the deep blue sky providing the only relief for the eyes. The taxi eventually came upon an ancient steel bridge over the Suru river, crossed it and entered Kargil. I requested to be dropped off at the JKTDC office. Which was a kilometre up a steep hill from where the taxi actually dropped me off. As I entered the compound of what appeared to a small collection of rooms high above the actual town of Kargil, I found no office. Only a lone and weather beaten caretaker. He pointed to a distant building a couple of kilometres down the hillside, saying that I had to book rooms there and come back with the receipt. All this carrying my bag on my back.

The tourist officer was a quiet man. As I went in, preparation was in full swing for the imminent visit by a local minister. He looked up from his busy work and asked my why I had chosen to come to Kargil in the winter. He told me that all the water pipes had frozen up and there would be no running water in Kargil till spring. Satisfied that I was prepared to put up with these discomforts, he asked me what my plans were. I said I planned to stay in Kargil for a couple of days, spend one day heading up the Suru valley and maybe visit Mulbek. The chamba, or the statue of Buddha, in Mulbek was described as being carved with "esoteric Shivite symbolism". On reading that description, there was no way that I could not visit it. After which I planned on going to Leh. The officer thought for a moment and suggested that I spend just that day in Kargil, take the drive up the Suru valley early the next day and head to Mulbek directly. There was a tourist bungalow there, where I could stay, and catch the only bus to Leh the day after at an early six in the morning. It seemed like the perfect plan. Dumping my bag in the room, I headed to the bazaar in search of a taxi to drive me as far up the Suru valley as possible. I finally found a driver willing to take me as far as Sankoo, and drop me off at Mulbek by around three in the afternoon. The only catch was that we had to depart before six in the morning. Having agreed on a price and the time to leave, I headed up the road leading away from Kargil. On the way I passed by a huge tear in the hillside through which the floods of August had entered Kargil and caused much damage. As I climbed higher, the town slowly came into view. A tiny town clustered around a bend in the Suru river, surrounded by the mighty and beautifully desiccated mountains. I was hungry again.

Wanting a local delicacy, it was the thukpa I was after. I asked the caretaker of the bungalow where I would get good thukpa. He gave directions to a sort of shady place near the councillor’s office where he promised I would get good thukpa. I reached the place and found two hotels matching his description. I entered the first one, and asked for a thukpa. He said he didn't have it. I went to the next place and saw in the back the noodles for the thukpa getting prepared. I asked the fellow, when it would be ready. He said it would take time, and recommended that I come tomorrow. But I was headed to Mulbek tomorrow, I replied. He thought for a while and said that the thukpa would be ready in two hours. He promised. Very well. I went back to the room, put on more layers of clothing and killed time watching the sun set over the mountains. After exactly two hours, with the freezing temperatures outside, I walked down the steep kilometre from the room and went to the hotel where the thukpa was waiting for me. I arrived at the place and found it dark. It was then I realised that though he had said that the thukpa would be ready in two hours, he never said anything about hotel being open so that I could eat it. The hotel was shut tight and padlocked. I had to settle for dal and rice at a nearby place.

The taxi the next day was driven by a very talkative Mr Rizvi. The drive in the early morning sunshine was perhaps the best so far. We stopped first at the imambara in Tresporne, which was conveniently closed. I had seen the interiors of the place in some photos and wanted to take a look myself. As it turned out, the caretaker had left for the week to a village about 20km from Tresporne. We headed on. Stopping now and then to take pictures, we eventually ended up at Sankoo, where the chamba was precariously located. And trying to get a good look, I tripped and fell into a freezing stream that flowed beneath it. Which was uncomfortable. And my shoes were thoroughly soaked. At about midday, Rizvi invited me to his home and fed me a very tasty combination of naan and tea. Rizvi's grandfather was preparing for a trip to Karbala in Iraq, and the the whole household was busy making preparations. We left as the afternoon approached and after a dusty drive, arrived at Mulbek. The tourist bungalow was a small building located at the end of the village. And it appeared I was the only guest in a few months. Rizvi and me exchanged byes and I headed off to take stock of the "esoteric Shivite symbolism" of the chamba there. Finding it esoteric enough, I decided to take a small hike up the surrounding mountains. From the very top, I could see far down the road leading all the way to Leh.

A welcome of empty streets

2011-03-04T16:37:00.001+05:30

The crowded taxi sped on towards Banihal. The road snaked its way though a large construction site. Half built pillars leading to a big hole in the mountain side. The beginning of a long tunnel. The taxi lurched to a sudden halt in front of a check point. And another gaping hole in the mountain side. The tunnel under the Pir Panjal, the road into the valley. The road stretched out in front of us, sparsely lit by yellow lights, dark and strangely quiet. Now and then, the rush of a passing truck would fill the tunnel with noise, and then the quite would return. Greeted by sunshine after a good fifteen minutes, the valley beckoned.

Getting down at Anantnag, I asked around for the railway station. People I asked wondered why. To ride the train! I said. But the trains aren't running, they said. And with the tracks being damaged during protests near Baramulla, they haven't been running for over a month. With no other option left, I got into a shared taxi on its way to Srinagar and beyond. As the taxi stopped now and then to let off people, I wondered where I had to go. I had no idea where the taxi was actually headed. Just that it would be passing via Srinagar. Eventually, the driver asked where I needed to go. Not knowing the first thing about the city, I asked to be dropped off at the bus stand, hoping there would be a main bus stand. Unprepared as I was, the driver then asked me which bus stand. For want of a better answer, I asked for the bus stand from where buses to Kargil departed. He immediately came to a halt, pointed to a street, and told me that the bus stand was a few minutes down that road. The chill creeped into my sparse clothes as I stepped out onto the street. The area was surprisingly quiet. I saw not one car or bike on the street. The few pedestrians walked quickly huddled in thick winter garments. After a slow amble of a few minutes, I reached the bus stand. Probably the only central bus stand I have been to where I could hear the rustle of the leaves in the wind.

The owner of the houseboat was a bit of a grouch. With a very unnerving way of getting straight to the point. After being paid for the two days I wanted to stay, he left me in the company of his son Wasim and his droll humour. Wasim ran the boat and looked after the guests. The surrounding Dal lake was covered in a wispy layer of mist gathering slowly in the late afternoon sunshine. As the wind picked up, I realised the inadequacy of the warm clothing I had packed. I went inside and, in the comparably warm interior of the boat, started to root around in the bag for something resembling a warm jacket. Finding none, I settled for multiple layers of clothing. The boat was very well appointed, and quite a bargain given that winters in Kashmir were not exactly peak tourist seasons. Feeling really chilly, I asked for a hot bath, and Wasim opened the tap in the tiny bathroom for the cold water to run out. The hot water would begin to pour out of the tap in a few minutes, he told me. After a good wait of a fifteen minutes, and not finding any hot water in the tap, I turned it off and went back to the porch. A few minutes later, Wasim returned to tell me that supper would be served at around eight. He asked if the water was warm enough. There was no hot water, I replied, and I closed the tap instead of wasting so much water. He laughed. There is no shortage of water in Kashmir, he said. Since there is nothing much else left in Kashmir anyway, we might as well use the water before that too runs out.

Finding transportation in the middle of a general strike was hard. And it was a perfectly beautiful day outside, with the sun just rising above the mist shrouded mountains. After a very comfortable sleep the previous night, and wanting to stretch my legs, I decided to take a walk. The six kilometre hike up the hill to Shankaracharya was filled with spectacular views of early morning Srinagar. The road, lined with trees sporting their brightly coloured autumn foliage, did not feel tiring. Though my camera was taken away from me at the top by the security. My wish to take pictures of the city from the very top remained unfulfilled. Walking down, my next destination was the Moghul gardens. A good five kilometres away atleast. But, the streets were empty, and the pace leisurely. After roaming the gardens, I realised that the walk to the gardens along the peaceful tree lined avenues of Srinagar was more enjoyable. The road along the banks of the Dal lake especially. With early evening approaching, I walked towards the city, towards Lal Chowk and onwards to Hazratbal. Before I left in the morning, Wasim had pointedly warned me to avoid Lal Chowk in the morning. Evening would be better he had said. Lal Chowk was deserted. All the shops were closed and with very few people in the streets. Hazratbal though, was filled to the brim. And with my camera having been taken away by the security even before I approached the main entrance, I had to satisfy myself with staring at the shrine from outside. Tired after a long day, and planning to take an early morning shared taxi to Kargil, I decided to head back to the boat. A very tasty supper awaited me.

The taxis have all left, the man said. And there would be no more for the day. Waking up unreasonably early and walking to the taxi stand had been a waste. With the strike showing no sign of being lifted, I decided to go to Gulmarg. After a small lunch at a hotel in which I was the only guest, I hiked for a few hours among the silent pine forests of Gulmarg. I had to be back in the village before three in the afternoon to catch the last taxi back to Srinagar, which left me plenty of time for a small nap in the forest. The taxi back was driven a pleasant fellow named Mushtaq. Who shattered the pleasantness of the drive by narrating a gruesome tale involving nine terrorists, the army and villagers caught in the middle. A story which ended with a man being dismembered and his body parts strewn along the main road. Back in Srinagar, I decided to stay at the JKTDC hotel by the main bus stand. The next morning, in my hurry to catch the lone taxi to Kargil at six in the morning, I forgot my towel back in the room. As the taxi sped away from Srinagar, the prospect of a bath in the cold of Kargil seemed remote. The towel wasn't missed.

Northward bound

2011-02-22T18:14:00.001+05:30

The first thing I noticed as I crossed Pathankot on the way to Jammu was that my phone stopped working. The phone itself was working just fine, it was just that there was no usable network. Which was unexpected. As it turns out, pre-paid connections issued outside the state of Jammu and Kashmir don't work in Jammu and Kashmir. It just meant that I had to rely on internet cafes and public phones. A minor hiccup. But a discomforting one. The highway though offered unexpected treats. One among them was small roadside dhaba where the bus stopped for lunch. I don't remember the name, but I'll always remember the dal which I had there. It was probably the best dal that I had ever tasted. I hope to taste it again soon. As the bus made its unhurried way to Jammu, the river Tawi slowly came into view. Truth be told, I was expecting Jammu to be a bit more hilly. At about two in the afternoon, the bus finally reached the main bus stand in Jammu.

The second thing I noticed as I got into an auto rickshaw in Jammu was the more than normal presence of security. At all major traffic junctions pillboxes surrounded by sand bags and concertina barbed wire were manned by armed soldiers. And once in a while a car or bike would be stopped and thoroughly checked. I managed to locate a decent yet budget place to stay close to the old city with help from the auto driver. And on the way there, the third thing I noticed was that all autos had doors. Without exception. I asked the driver why and joked about doors preventing people from escaping surprise security checks. The driver laughed it off, instead giving a reason of protecting passengers from the dust. Given that most doors were just waist high, that seemed implausible. Also, since when have auto drivers thought of their passengers' comfort. Before I could say so to the driver, the hotel arrived. A room with no view awaited me.

The Mubarak Mandi, situated atop a small hill surrounded by the cheek-by-jowl gullies of the old city, would have been spectacular. Except I chose to visit it at the time of massive restoration. Navigating through the construction debris, there was a sense of long faded grandeur waiting to be revealed. Hidden just behind a thick layer of grime and disuse, waiting the expert hands of the ASI to bring it to the fore. All the buildings of the old palace complex that once made up Mubarak Mandi were now government offices, expect for a lone museum which was closed. It showed no sign of having ever been open. I wished to linger in the courtyard, to gaze at the buildings surrounding me, but hunger drove me to find a place to eat. As I passed through the imposing arched doorway, I made it a point to visit again. If the restoration goes as I hope, it will be a rewarding experience.

As I made my way through the narrow streets, I decided to lunch at a place called the Paras Ram dabha. I had heard a lot about the place, but very little about where it was located. All I knew was that it was near an area called Panjtirthi. I determined to hunt it down. I arrived at Panjtirthi, and started to roam the streets, looking for the place. After a good one and half hours of searching, I could find no place that called itself Paras Ram dabha. I could not even find a board or sign that said Paras Ram anything. Asking around for Paras Ram dabha, I finally managed to narrow the search down to a single stretch of road. After roaming the street a few times with no luck, I stopped at a small kiosk to pick up a cola. As a final attempt, I asked the shopkeeper about Paras Ram dabha. He pointed across the street to a nondescript blue building with a huge crowd outside and said that that was it. All I could see of the small grimy building was a couple of small doorways with people pouring out of it and a small board hung above one of them proclaiming the office of one Wazir Lakhpathrai Charitable Trust.

In hindsight, the crowd should have given me a clue. I decided to wait a bit more for the crowd to go away. As I stood there waiting, with hunger gnawing me, I thought about what I could eat. After a wait of about half an hour, enough place became available for me to get inside. What I saw could be best described as two small rooms with closely placed tables connected by a narrow, dark passage in the back. I settled on a place, and as the guy came to take the order, I decided to play it safe and order roti with the chicken curry on offer. A quick minute later, a plate piled with two rotis and a bowl of curry, several pieces of chicken in a questionable brown gravy, arrived. By then, I was too hungry to care. But, one bite, and I was taken aback. It was simply brilliant. The search, the wait, the hunger, all had been totally worth it. After a full meal, I decided to walk down the Circular road, a hilly, tree-lined road descending to the banks of the Tawi river. After a long walk and a contented wade in the river, and a long lingering tour of the old market area, I decided it was a worthwhile visit to Jammu.

With the usual tourist stop overs at the Bagh-e-Bahu and the Amar Mahal palace done with the previous day, a train to Udhampur awaited. Getting up at an early six in the morning to catch the DMU to Udhampur, the first leg of the most awaited Kashmir railway, was a bit of a disappointment. I was hoping for the shiny new train, but instead I had to settle for an old and much beaten one. Not really much of a set back. For I could ride to my heart's content the shiny new ones from Anantnag to Baramulla, which I planned to do for a whole day, back and forth. I had dreamed of this for a whole year, ever since I got to know of the railway line being built in Kashmir. A wait of just one more day did not seem that long.

A surprising detour

2011-02-22T12:00:00.001+05:30

The bottle of beer arrived, chilled to the perfect temperature. But we had to order quickly, for it was close to three in the afternoon and the kitchen was closing. And I was quite hungry. I hadn't had anything substantial the whole day, most of which was occupied by the time wasted at Arunachal Bhavan trying to get an inner-line permit. That I never used the permit now makes the time wasted there all the more missed. I ordered the first thing I spied on the menu and Vaibhav said that he was not very hungry. I first met Vaibhav when I moved to Nodia after college. We worked together at the same place for about a year, before I returned to Bangalore. That it had been close to two years since I had last spoken to him, seemed at that moment immaterial. It was like as though I had never left Noida. And eventually, it was time for Vaibhav to return to work, and me to head back to Delhi. As we waited for the bill to arrive, Vaibhav asked me where I planned to go next. Jammu, I said, but there was no plan as such. And then he proposed a plan. He and a couple of his friends were headed to McLeodgunj for the weekend. If I had no plan, I was welcome to join them. They were driving out there in a friend's car and there was place for one more. I nodded. And we planned to meet up the evening next day at the bus stand at Kashmiri gate in Delhi.

I arrived at Kashmiri gate on the last train only to see a message from Vaibhav that he and his friends would be there in ten minutes. Ten minutes later, with me comfortably tucked into the back seat of the Hyundai, we set off. An hour into the drive on the highway to Chandigarh, we stopped at a roadside dabha where I passed on the most tempting meal I had ever laid eyes on. Golden roasted makki roti and saag. With a more than generous helping of soft melting butter heaped on top. I did not want an upset stomach ruining the drive. After dinner, with Vaibhav back at the wheel, we set off. And it would have been all the more enjoyable if only I hadn't been thoroughly scared for my life during the whole drive to Chandigarh. For behind the wheel was Vaibhav; mild mannered techie by day, feared long distance driver by night.

Desperately hoping to fall asleep to spare myself from checking if the seat belt was thoroughly fastened every ten minutes, I closed my eyes tight. But that did not work. Every so often, we would pass by a fully loaded lorry blaring its horn like there would be no tomorrow. And the dust kicked up by the lorries, which flowed into the car uninterrupted did not help matters. Vaibhav keeping his window open to prevent him from falling asleep more than succeeded. And the wind chilled me to the bone. Being too scared to unbuckle my seat belt to reach for the jacket in the back, I braved the chilly wind and the copious dust. Which ended with me catching a severe cold before we reached Chandigarh. As we crossed into Himachal Pradesh, the winding roads on the way to Dharamsala were a brilliant way to welcome a new dawn. As the car climbed higher, this little detour seemed all the more exiting. Vaibhav, Gaurav, Shubam and me were set for a little camping trip to Thrund, a mountain village on the foothills of the Himalayas.

After a night of merry making, we woke up the next morning at an early five and set off with our guide on the trail to Thrund where a tent and other facilities were conveniently arranged in advance. Gaurav, having been thoroughly spooked by my coughing, had been afraid that I might not last the night. He later told me that it sounded like a death rattle. Hiking up the mountain trail, in the thin air with an unstoppable running nose was not a pleasant experience. But the views on the way were spectacular. When we stopped half way up the trail, the panoramic view of Dharamsala, complete with the shiny new cricket stadium was better than any refreshment. At the top, with full views of peaks covered with freshly fallen snow, we sipped tea and and relaxed on the bright green grass. As we gazed at the sun set slowly behind the hills, a merry little fire was started and the food was being passed around. Having had our full, and passing the late evening by the camp fire, we retired to the tents. I hoped to catch some long needed sleep despite the clogged nose that refused to let me breathe.

We set off down the mountain early the next day. I planned to stay the day at Dharamsala to do nothing but drink hot water and sleep off the cold. The others headed back to Delhi having dropped me off at the bazaar in Dharamsala. I got a room at the first hotel I found, downed a jug to steaming hot water and promptly passed out. Late that evening, having inquired around for buses to Jammu, I had a small supper at a roadside eatery. The bus would leave the next morning at nine. I made sure that I would wake up early with plenty of time to catch the bus, downed another jug of steaming hot water and surrendered to the warmth of the thick quilt on that chilly winter night.

The thirteenth to the twenty-first

2011-01-13T13:21:00.003+05:30

The tourist card is a brilliant way to travel around Delhi. For 300 rupees, unlimited rides on the metro for three days. And I made sure I made full use of it. In fact, when I returned it, it was after riding on the last train on the last day, and running to the counter as it was closing. And I even got a Rs 50 refund. I wish I could have attempted the Metro Challenge though. Pass through all the stations in the metro on all the lines at least once and see how long it takes. Thought I managed to cover four lines in their entirety, the new fifth one remained elusive. Well, the line is going nowhere, and there will always be another opportunity to visit Delhi. And it is the only consolation I can offer myself. And the trains were definitely much more crowded than I remembered. Maybe now that the metro actually covers a considerable amount of the Delhi NCR area, an even larger number of people find it useful. But, the truth is this. No matter how many times we ride the metro, how many times we walk in and out of the stations without giving them a second glance, the shock of stepping out of the station at Chawri Bazaar, and stepping right into the middle of Bazaar Lal Kuan road in the middle old Delhi in simply unmatched. And it happens every time, irrespective of how jaded a metro traveller you are.

And it is near this station, in the Hauz Qazi area, in a small, well hidden gully off a busy street leading from the Gate No. 1 of the Juma Masjid, that the Hotel Karim is in. But directions are unnecessary. All one needs to do is to close their eyes and follow their nose, a nose led by the aroma originating from the seekh kababs slowly cooking over charcoal fires. And while you hang around the place waiting for a table to begin gorging, take a little time to study the menu. And order immediately when the fellow comes down to take your order. For there are other hapless souls waiting. Being cruelly tempted by the aroma wafting through the whole courtyard. And when it was finally my turn to choose, I could not but go for a combination of the seekh kabab and the mutton biryani. The spice of the kebab to tickle, and the warm subtle taste of the biryani to soothe the tongue and leave it demanding more. Stepping outside, the streets beckoned. And I followed. In search of an old mosque I had once seen in a painting, in a picture book bought on a whim at the Delhi book fair.

Though there was nothing black about it, it was the Kala Masjid to anyone I asked for directions. In the painting I had seen, the Kalan Masjid was a tall building next to a few hutments surrounded by large fields. The present day path to it led through ever narrowing streets. I wondered whether I would even recognise it. But as soon as I laid my eyes on the long flight of stairs leading to the main doorway, I knew I had arrived. But it was only the stairs that were visible. The rest of the building was hidden behind the houses that had sprouted since. A little game of cricket was progressing in full spirit at the bottom of the stairs with one kid studiously ignoring the demands by his mother to come home and finish his homework. Homework could wait. They were more interested in getting me to convince the muezzin to unlock the roof. The roof? I asked. Yes, the roof, they said. They wanted to play on it and they were seldom allowed on it. The roof seemed to offer an intriguing prospect. The roof was, as I remembered from the painting, was a neat arrangement of small white domes that offered interesting opportunities for taking pictures.

The muezzin was a short, jolly fellow. With a quiet voice and an infectious smile. I asked whether I could take pictures inside, and he gladly said yes and proceeded to tell me stories of the mosque. The neighbourhood kids, meanwhile seeing that the muezzin was busy talking to me, tried to sneak up onto the roof. One by one. A game of hide-and-seek followed. And as more kids were chased out, more came back in again. Finally, the muezzin gave up and asked if I wanted to take a look at the roof. The opportunity I had waited for and, I had the sneaky suspicion, so had the kids. I went up to the roof, and so did the game of hide-and-seek, with the kids now being chased away from the roof. Their game of cricket forgotten for now. As I stepped out, the sun was low in the sky. The outside scene had changed with vegetable vendors loudly hawking their wares. As I turned a corner, the Kalan Masjid seemed to be a piece of Old Delhi preserved in a snow globe. A living snow globe. The best sort there is.

It was fun to be a tourist in Delhi again. And this time I had made it a point to go to all the places that I never had during my stay there. The Khan market, Safdarjung's tomb. And Gurgaon. Just to see what all the talk was about. With one more day of stay in Delhi left, which I had reserved to meet a few old friends, I could finally proceed northwards. To Jammu and further. I had, in a corner of my mind, a vague feeling that I would somehow end up in J&K during this trip. It was looking like it was going to come true. And the cold looked very inviting.

Comfort food

2010-12-31T17:13:00.001+05:30

Strange thoughts on a train are only natural. They are the perfect complement to each other. Like dal and roti, like curds and rice, like ... And very helpful for passing the time slowly rolling by in the fog covered early morning county-side. And in that moment, surrounded by perfect strangers, whom you are guaranteed never to see again, you can be yourself. Free from having to put up appearances, from having to build just the right impression, free to be just for the sake of your own enjoyment. Whimsical and care-free. Just because you felt like it. And so what if you seemed a bit stupid to others, it was not like their paths and yours were likely to cross again. And even if they did, would they really remember you. First impressions can be built again. Eventually, the rising sun clears away the fog and your misconception along with it. The urge to conform increases as the first warm rays of the sun awaken your fellow passengers. The desire to be whimsical was just as wispy. Easily dispelled by societal conditioning, as the fog in the bright morning sunshine.

With Hazartganj completely dug-up, I suffered my first traffic jam in Lucknow. Previously unheard of. It took a crawling hour from the railway station to meet an old friend of mine, Sudiptho, who studied at the IIM there. I was back in familiar surroundings. And memories weren't far behind. I always found it difficult to explain what exactly about this city called me back again and again. But it filled me with a satisfaction, a satisfaction of visiting a familiar home after a long bout of homesickness, to answer that call. Time and again. A funny thing about this city. Whenever I chose to visit it, I always had a close friend to welcome me. Maybe it was the city sending me a subtle message. After spending a week in a strange land hoping to make it a little more familiar, I was back in a familiar land, hoping to make it a little closer to my heart.

The campus was picture card pretty, to be truly experienced in misty late night walks with just your thoughts to keep you company. A little intoxicant may be of help. And walking down the quiet roads, you come to the realisiation that these are the roads to real life. Behind the glamour, behind the name and fame and just beside the feeling of having arrived against heavy odds, there lies the epiphany that this is just the beginning. A beginning that will make the difference between being a suit in the middle floors of a large corporate edifice and a chance to begin something new. As I returned to the hostels along with Sudiptho, who looked determined to sieze the opportunity offered by the college, I was slightly disturbed by the long slog of a couple of years that lay ahead of him. I guess this is a place only for those prepared to face it head on. Though the late night parties by the bare flagpole out amidst the acedemic buildings might help. A soothing balm, perhaps. In a place where there are precious few.

The longing had been with me for quite some time now. And now that I was in Lucknow, I couldn't leave without having eaten copious food at Dastarkhwan, a little roadside restaurant near Qaiserbagh. All my memories of Lucknow are tied, inexplicably to the tandoori chicken at that place. Eating which I realised that this could perhaps be the best preparation of tandoori chicken ever devised by man. Leaving Lucknow without eating here appeared profane, an act I could not bring myself to commit. On arriving at there, I was confronted by a huge crowd and a significant wait. I decided to roam around the place for some more time and come back a while later. There was a collection of buildings in that area, the Makhbara Imam Zaidi, that I wanted to take pictures of. Camera in hand, at late in the evening, I roamed about the place taking pictures in every angle that I pleased. Satisfied, I decided to rest myself on the lawn where the evening's dew had just begun to settle. Staring at the buildings, I failed to notice the policeman who had appeared behind me. He seemed suspicious. He enquired about my purpose. What was I doing here at this time. Where was I from, and where in Lucknow I stayed. Partially convinced by my answers, he recommended that I leave immediately. This appeared strange. I didn't look like the type to cause trouble, or so I thought. And as I looked around, I saw the shadiness of the characters that had assembled on the lawns. I was the odd man out. Or atleast, I would like to think so, just to feel better. Thus convincing myself, I left for Dastarkhwan, and consumed the most amount of food I ever had in my life.

As Sudiptho immersed himself in his work, I was left with a free run of the place. Having spent a memorable three days in Lucknow, it was time to make up my mind about where to head to from here. Delhi seemed the obvious choice. Old friends waited for me there and so did old memories. From a part in my life in which I had experienced true independence for the first time. It was a memory that I wanted to revisit, and one that I wanted to strengthen. And it was just an overnight train ride away.

Between a lake and the deep sea

2010-12-18T16:07:00.002+05:30

The sea played peek-a-boo. It hid behind the thicket of trees just when you wanted to gaze at it. As the bus moved on, and you thought that the sea was never to be seen again, it revealed itself in all its beauty. Golden sands that stretched for ever, the greyish blue water that invited you to dive in on that sultry morning, and sounds of the waves breaking on the beach. A tiny moment to take it all in as the sea, once more, hid behind the trees. As the road passed a bend, paddy fields in all their greenery was a sight to behold. It was not like the fields I had seen before. Irregular patches of young shoots, unlike the orderly squares of elsewhere. Like a lush grassland that naturally grew there untouched by man. And in the middle of the field, a square stone lined pond. A tiny pond fringed by tall coconut trees with little steps leading to the shimmering water. Like a little gem set amid the bright green paddy. A sight to put you at complete peace. And while the bus sped its way along the road to Puri, the picture of the sea coyly hiding behind the trees remained in my mind.

The route to Satapada was set among lush paddy fields punctuated by little villages, where the bus stopped to let off the school kids returning home. It was a warm afternoon, a pleasant kind of warmth, with a gentle breeze that left you craving for more. One could spend whole lives in such afternoons and not desire for more. As we neared Satapada, a little bunch of shrimp farms began to be seen amid the paddy. The farms grew more frequent as the bus headed on. It was difficult to tell where the paddy fields ended and the shrimp farms began. They seemed to blend into each other. As the paddy completely disappeared, I knew we had arrived. At the northern shore of the Chilika lake. Satapada, where the room at the OTDC Panthanivas, opened onto an enormous balcony on the first floor. Where the vast expanse of the water lay in front of my eyes. It was time to feast on some shrimp.

The restaurant below was where I ate every possible prawn dish they prepared. And it was good. When I went to pay, I asked them if there was any place around to swim in. The fellow thought for a second and directed me to talk to the forest range officer whose office happened to be just across the street. The officer was a pleasant fellow, who offered me tea on the lawn outside. It was always a pleasure to welcome people from outside he said. A little chat about the local dolphins and birds later, he asked me how long I intended to stay. I told him I had no plans as such but my booking at the OTDC was for two days, and that I could stay for longer if I liked. He then presented a plan. I could head out to Bharampur island on the Cilika, where there were a few forest lodges with no electricity, stay there for the night and head the next day to Rajhans island, spend the morning there and head back to Satapada. And possibly sight a few dolphins along the way. I was in. I asked him about the ways to get there. He then informed me that one of the department guys was coming up to pick up fuel and that he was heading to Bharampur island. I could go along if I liked. Excellent. Also, there was one officer who was heading to Rajhans island from there the next day morning and I could tag along. From Rajhans island, I could find one of the many private vessels that ply to Satapada. This was turning out to be brilliant. I agreed and was told to expect to leave by eight in the evening. I went back to the room, packed a smaller bag for the day ahead and killed time staring at the sun set slowly over the lake.

Riding a boat in the complete darkness, with only faint and distant lights to tell you that land is not far off, with the rush of the water by the side of the boat being the only sounds, and the cold air chilling you in the warm evening. An experience that will not be soon forgotten. We reached Bharampur at about nine in the evening, and all the light that greeted me was a lonely bulb near the kitchen. Food was being prepared. On the menu was a local fish called a shorda. It tasted very similar to egg whites, and very addictive. When I took one bite, I couldn't stop. Four of those fish were cleaned to the bones before I looked up. What followed was rice and yet more fish. Stuffed to the throat, I decided to roam around the island a bit till I felt too sleepy to move. I would head out to Rajhans island early the next day. I couldn't wait.

We reached Rajhans island at about eight in the morning and I headed immediately to the sea. This island is like a sandbar, very long and very narrow. On its west lay the Chilika lake and on the east lay the expanse of the Bay of Bengal. I was all alone on this vast stretch of shining golden sand for the next four hours. As the sands slowly heated up, it was time to plunge into the inviting waters of the Bay. And return to bake on the sand when the water got too cold. And plunge into the water when the sand got too hot. And so on. I was feeling quite hungry at this point, and since I had no food with me, it was time to head back to Satapada to find something to eat. I headed to the jetty on the lake to spy out some boat willing to go to Satapada. As I was waiting, one of the locals, named Tapanjane, with whom I had become pally with told me that all the boats had been hired by the tourists and I would have to wait till three in the afternoon. My stomach was growling by then, and I had no other choice but to wait. But he came up with a plan. One of his cousins, who owned a boat was coming to Rajhans with some tourists and he would head back to Satapada in an hour taking the tourists with him. I could go along with them if I wished. My stomach stopped growling, and I said I could do that. A wait of an hour later, as the tourist boat was about to leave, Tapanjane talked to the cousin, and sent me on the boat. I had the feeling that the tourists thought I was working with the forest department, and hence did not object to me coming on board. Well, I was nobody to correct them.

At five in the morning the next day, it was time to catch the first bus to Puri. There was a train at ten to Lucknow, and I was headed there. The bus slowly made its way towards Puri giving me plenty of time to take in the green Orissa countryside. It was a sight that makes you return again and again. I'm happy to oblige. This visit to Orissa was brief, and there was much left to see, do and taste. I shall be back I told myself. And as I waited at the platform in the railway station at Puri, it was the last opportunity to eat dahi vada before I jumped into the general compartment for the 20 hour journey that lay ahead. It tasted good.

Strangely comforting paddy fields

2010-12-12T21:50:00.004+05:30

Expectations about the weather are rarely correct. Given that it was chilly and drizzling all the three days in Hyderabad, I had expected that brilliant weather to continue in Orissa. It was after all on the same eastern belt and there were rumours of cyclones. But, it was not to be. It was hot and sunny. Very. The sun beat down on my face as I made my way out of the train station in search of a place to stay.

Bhubaneshwar is a clean and well laid out city, atleast the newer parts. It was, however, the older areas of the city I was interested in. And the best way to see it was to walk it. Google Maps in hand, I plotted a course and set off in what was a balmy afternoon, with the determination that I would not return before ten in the night. My first destination was the Bindu Sagar lake in the centre of the old city. And it was all that I expected it to be. The lake surrounded by tiny temples on one side and the really huge Lingaraj temple on the other, with the processions on occasion of Durga Pooja in full swing on its banks, it was a sight to behold. And the street food vendors, selling very delectable dahi vada on its banks, which in my opinion is the best hangover food ever, made it a feast.

As I walked down narrow roads, in which ever direction that pleased me, I noticed the sun had started to dip. It was time to find a way out, and find a nice pub to cool the evening heat. After a couple of hours of walking, I find myself out of the old city and an auto to carry me to newer parts in search of a watering hole. The first place I reached was closed. And no one in sight to tell me whether it would actually open. Very well. I was certain there were other places. I met a similar fate at the next place, but this time there was one whom I could ask about the situation. As it turned out, during Durga Pooja, no alcohol was to be served. But, give up, I couldn't. I just had to persevere to find a place less religiously inclined. After being turned away from five more places, and by then having walked a good five kilometres in the search, I could not head back disappointed. But a moral victory was at hand. So what if I was denied alcohol, no one could deny me a sugar high, and having decided that, I bought five bottles of Sprite and finished them off in one sitting. The result wasn't what I expected.

The next day was a little museum time, where I happened to come upon the most awesome, and I have no other word for this, interpretation of Chamunda in the form of a 13th century sculpture. It so happened that buses to Konark were available right outside the museum, and as I had my bag handy decided to head there. The bus arrived after a small wait, and as was expected, very crowded. I managed to dump my bag in the small pigeon hole in the back and wrestled my way in. The conductor, who noticed that I was obviously not from around there, was very helpful. The journey was was going to be short and the discomfort wasn't very bothersome. Halfway along the route, the bus stopped at a small town called Nimaparha. The stop was for a quite a long time, and both the driver and the conductor got on top to unload the luggage from the roof. In the meanwhile, the bus stated to empty a bit, and quite a few seats became available. I grabbed the one closest to me.

After some time, more people started getting on the bus, and all the empty seats were eventually taken. A few moments before the bus was about to leave, a large group of people got on, and among them was a lady carrying a sleeping two year old kid. As she neared my seat, I looked around frantically to see if any empty seats were present in the bus. There were none. Resigned to my situation, I got up to make way. And in the crowd of people that got on the bus, I was eventually pushed to the back. It was going to be standing all the way to Konark. In the meanwhile, the conductor, who was all this while on the roof loading and unloading luggage got into the bus to issue tickets. He saw me hanging onto the bars at the back of the bus, and shouted above the din, "So many seats became empty and you are still standing?". I was sure a lot of people heard him and turned around to stare at me. And the conductor had this expression on his face that said he thought I was the biggest idiot in the world. I had no desire to shout out my explanation all the way from the back. I smiled and nodded.

With the Sun Temple visited, I heard of a brilliant of a sea food place right on the Chandrabagha beach. This being my birthday, it was something I just couldn't miss. Several plates of various sea fish, all accompanied by rice, and surrounded by the Bay of Bengal. It was a happy birthday to me.

To stop train pull chain

2010-11-23T23:18:00.002+05:30

The Secunderabad railway station is a very clean station. Very ordered and quite well maintained. And locating the train I was to be on to Bhubaneshwar was relatively easy. Of course, it also helped that the platform on which the train was standing happened to be next to the entrance. But the place where the reservation charts were put up though was crowded. Getting a peek at the charts proved difficult. It was not an issue. All I had to do was check my ticket status on my phone by going to the Indian Railways website to see which berth I had been given. And that was exactly what I did.

It was "WaitList 8" when I had booked the ticket the previous day. And when I checked 15 minutes before the departure of the train, it was "WaitList 1". There was no berth waiting for me. Very well. I was not to be thwarted. I headed straight to the ticket counter and bought an unreserved ticket to Bhubaneshwar, and jumped into the general compartment. Which was unusually crowded for a starting station. As my luck would have it, this was a special train which had started all the way from Tirupathi. And all I could manage was to find a little place to stand and some space under the seats to dump my bag before the train started. But, it wasn't really that bad. Not as crowded as some general compartments can get. I decided to remain there till some seat emptied in one of the coming stations and I could find a place to sit.

The train, after an uneventful six hours, arrived at Vijayawada at ten in the night. And the people poured in. They poured in through the door which was next to the platform. Through the door on the other side, which could only be accessed by crossing the tracks. And also through the emergency exits. And the emergency windows that were closed were forced open and people poured in through that. Head first. Men and women crawled in. Luggage, quite sizeable ones, and children were passed trough. In the melee, it was hard to tell which was which. And when the train finally managed to leave Vijayawada, the compartment was atleast thrice as full as when it came in. There I was, stuck in the middle, standing on one leg, the other stuck between two heavy bags in an odd position and not one hand hold in reach. And I would see, in the next twelve hours, ten fights breakout in the neighbourhood, eight of them caused by a drunken buffoon just for kicks.

There I stood for the next five hours. I had been standing now for the past ten hours and my feet were getting numb. And my hands were sprained from holding on to imaginative hand holds. I pleaded with one fellow sitting close by whether I could sit in his place for 10 minutes. He very kindly agreed and I had one square foot space to rest and take the strain off my feet. And I passed out. I had never known sleep to take over like that. And the next instant, I suddenly jerked awake. It turned out that I had been asleep for half an hour. When I was about to get up to return the seat, the fellow bade me to sit down. He was to get off at the next station which was not 10 minutes away. Grateful, I went back into a deep sleep.

I was rudely woken up at five in the morning. By a kid not more than 16. And he was demanding my seat. Well, according to him, he was claiming his seat back. I asked him how was this ever his seat. And his explanation to this just drove my sleep away. According to him, this grandmother's sister-in-law was sitting in that place, from where she got up last night to sleep on the floor and which was consequently taken by the fellow who offered me that seat as he was about to leave the train. I refused. At which point, an elderly person who appeared to be his grandfather started shouting at me. I was too sleep deprived to be intimidated. I replied that if he wanted the luxury of a guaranteed seat, he should have taken a reservation. The kid was then instructed to sit next to me and attempt to push me out as I was sitting on the edge. I wouldn't budge. Eventually they gave up and on the last station in Andra Pradesh, they along with the crowd just left. The train was comfortable atlast.

The next 5 hours on the train were shockingly comfortable. And as we travelled though the green Orissa countryside, the early morning sun made the outside view magical. But, I was too sleepy to enjoy that. The train would be arriving in Bhubaneshwar at eleven in the morning and I had a precious three hours left to catch up on some long needed sleep. I drifted off dreaming of the places I wanted to visit and the sites I wanted to see and the food I wanted to taste. I woke up just in time to see the train pull into the railway station at Bhubaneshwar. I disembarked, had cup of tea and headed out. And as I left the station, I noticed a spring in my steps.

A friend in need

2010-11-21T23:01:00.002+05:30

The inter-state bus stand in Bangalore, the Kempegowda bus stand, was in the middle of a large construction project. The bus platforms were being renovated, and with some of the bus stand consumed by the up-coming metro station, it was not exactly a restful place. It was after some difficulty that I found the platform from which buses to Hyderabad departed. For it was in Hyderabad where my once flat-mate from Delhi now stayed. It was Venu's place that I now made for. And it was the remembrance all things past that bade me to board that bus.

A bus though, was missing. It was on a drizzly Thursday afternoon that I arrived at the bus stand only to discover that the KSRTC bus to Hyderabad had departed a few hours before and the next one wasn't until that night. But, I also discovered that APSRTC buses might be available. Though when they would be was hard to tell. With that in mind, I waited at the departure gate for any passing APSRTC bus headed in the direction of Hyderabad. A few hours later, after much asking around, I finally found a bus with an available seat going to Hyderabad. I finally reached Hyderabad after an event-less 12 hour journey.

It was a chilly five in the morning, when Venu came to the bus stand in Hyderabad to pick me up. And it was on his shiny new Bullet, which, I want I want I want. And a speedy 30 minutes later we arrive at his apartment near Hi-Tech City. When we enter the house, Venu proceeds to present a crate of beer. Twenty four shiny bottles of chilled beer which we start drinking at six in the morning. By about nine, we, pleasantly drunk, head to the city for a breakfast of roti, kheema and kichchidi. This was a wonderful beginning. Better than any I could have hoped for, for the month that lay ahead.

A fine two days pass amid much drinking, biryani eating, and merry making. It was time to think about where I would head next. Orissa sounded nice. I had never been there and this looked like a brilliant opportunity to fix that. After looking up trains from Hyderabad to Bhubaneshwar, I decide to book a 3AC berth in Tatkal quota on one of the trains. After a heart stopping moment when the IRCTC website failed to respond after the money was transferred, I got my ticket. The booking status read "Waitlist 8", which I was very sure would clear by the next day.

The next day, we were invited by Venu's parents for lunch at his place. The train wasn't till 4pm, which gave us plenty of time for a hearty lunch. We reach his place in the morning and after a light breakfast, proceed to kill time. It was then that I stumbled on a four page pull-out ad in the Deccan Chronicle. This ad touted the wonders of a new apartment complex being completed in Hyderabad. It also touted the wonder of high rise living and the supreme luxury on offer. It all looked very fancy and luxurious. Though I could never bring myself to live there. For the apartment was called "Aliens Space Station" and the builders were apparently the Aliens group. The bottom of the page with the ad featured various satisfied customers saying that they were "grateful for Aliens" for giving them the lifestyle they wanted. It all sounded very much like a cult.

Lunch was soon ready, and we were fed the best comfort food in the whole world. Fried stuff with chutney. After a very filling lunch, it was time to leave. The train would be departing in about an hour. We said our goodbyes and headed out. The train was to depart at four and hence the reservation charts wouldn't be prepared till 3:30. We reached the station at exactly this time. I exchanged goodbyes with Venu and headed towards where the charts were put up to see which my berth was. Orissa awaited.

The beginning that wasn't

2010-11-15T21:24:00.005+05:30

It was a chilly September morning that I woke up to. It was the first day of my new found unemployment. And I was loving every moment of it. With two good friends from far off visiting Bangalore then, the week seemed like the onset of spring. In a way it was. It was, for me, a new beginning. A new adventure in a new country, a new job, a new apartment. A new life. And it was a rainy day in July when it all began.

I always liked rainy days. They seem to make me go on long drives and forget about the jobs that needed getting done. Staying inside during a beautiful drizzle seems like such a waste. And it was maybe this heady state of mind that prompted me to quit my job that day. As I gave my two-month notice, I felt strangely at ease. But the gamble was big. Lethargy had prevented me from trying for a new job when employed in this one, and this one was slowly eating me from the inside. I decided that the only way I would go about finding a new job was if the security of the current one did not exist. The rains increased into August and my heady mood along with it.

The beginning of August offered a surprising and tempting offer. A mountaineering trip in Nepal was on the cards. We would head to Makalu base camp and see how high we could go from there. When I heard the plan, there was no way I could say no. I was in with all my excitement. It would be brilliant. And since a new job seemed remote at that point, there was nothing holding me back. And it would be for a month, which seemed like the perfect amount of time. We were to head out in the middle of October and return in the middle of November. To me, it seemed like I had quit the job at the right time. Like it was all falling into place.

On the day of departure, my bag was packed. This was something I had looked forward to for the past month. It was finally happening. I was yet to put on my shoes, but there was still time for it. The train wasn't for another five hours. It was then that I got a call from the other fellow who was also going along with me on this particular trip. And it wasn't pleasant. The agency from Nepal had called. All flights to Tumlingtar in Nepal were being badly affected due to the runway being rebuilt after monsoon damage. Our flight may or may not be affected. He would call us back in an hour and let us know.

An hour passed and so did another. And the fateful phone call arrived. The trip was not to be. All air traffic to Tumlingtar would be affected till further notice. There was no way he could guarantee our flight. At this news, the other fellow backed out and the agency refused to arrange for just one person. And so it was, that at three hours before the departure of our train, the whole thing stood cancelled. And as I sat there, thinking about what to do, my packed bag stared at me in the face. And I just couldn't bring myself to unpack it. It lay there for a day.

It was decided that I just couldn't stay at home thinking about what could have been. That I had to go. Somewhere. Somewhere close enough so that lethargy would not win over. And I would see from there about what to do. I picked up my bag and caught a bus to the inter-city bus stand. I reached the bus stand with nothing but a hint of a destination and a fainter trace of a plan for the month ahead. But I knew it was going to be good.

Cynical about cynicism

2010-09-16T00:53:00.004+05:30

The buses to Cole's Park, Bangalore were pretty frequent. According to the BMTC website anyway. G10 from Corporation to my destination. So decided, I headed out to the bus stand near my place and caught the next bus heading towards Corporation. I hadn't been to that part of Bangalore in a long time, if ever. And finding the place I was to be was unexpectedly easy. Though I had no clear idea what to expect when I arrived there. All I knew was that there was some sort of exhibition being held there. And that I was invited to come and have a look around.

The hall was modest and the welcome enthusiastic. When I mentioned the fact that I was invited here to the guy sitting in reception, his smile widened dramatically. After viguorously shaking my hand and exclaiming "excellent" several times, he bade me to enter. The hall was abuzz with the sound of excited discussion. A neat arrangement of tables in four rows of three greeted me. On each table was laid out a project to improve the community we lived in. From trash recycling to teaching run-away children. From saving cuddly puppies from the cruel hands of the BBMP enforcers to a fuzzy concept of eco-management that atleast in my belief was a cruel joke played on the eager visitors. From the completely inane to the very surprising, all found representation here.

Speeches were given. Flyers handed out. Ideas were presented and enthusiastically applauded. I had the vague and uneasy feeling of being trapped in an echo chamber. Any idea, however vague or pointless was hailed as the idea that would save humanity. I wish that was an exaggeration. Amid the din, there were two ideas that caught my imagination. One was about getting the attention of kids that had slipped through the cracks and one was about a mobile science lab with simple easy-to-show setups. Maybe it was my bias towards primary education that was at work here. But I honestly believe that those ideas were worth pursuing. Though one thing was very obvious during the whole thing. The least impressive ideas had the most impressive displays. The team that had come up with the fuzzy eco-management idea even had t-shirts printed out with the logo of the project. Yes they had a logo.

At the end of two hours, I had given my e-mail address to a bunch of people with the desperate hope that they would lose that piece of paper. During which I found myself standing in a queue for water next to a huge pile of used plastic glasses while a project about reducing plastic use stood not two metres away, one fellow handing reams and reams of flyers while his neighbour proudly displayed her poster showing easy steps to save our forests. I left amid a gaggle of excited people animatedly discussing the environmental benefits of using bicycles as they got into their cars. But atleast they were talking about it. Atleast their hearts were in the right place. Temporarily.

A comedy of errors

2010-03-27T12:12:00.007+05:30

Its a cold four in the morning and its all dark. The lonely beam of the headlights of the car illuminates the way. The road is empty and we are making decent speed. The scenery is still cloaked in darkness and I expect no interruptions. And time passes. A pale pink makes its lazy way over the horizon. The bright green of the paddy fields slowly come into view jarring me out of my drowsiness. And the next moment I bring the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

There is a man walking in front of me. Perhaps in his late middle ages. He is briskly swinging his arms as he ambles forth. From his posture, it appears that this is his morning exercise to stimulate his bowels. Very well. My only wish is that he wouldn't do it in the middle of the road. We pass the man by, who now appears to be searching for a suitable shrub to crouch behind.

Villages pass us by. Its early morning now. The bus-stops by the side of the road are slowly filling with people. A bullock cart or two is visible off the road. So much of the scenery is visible when you are travelling at 10 kph. A very pleasant morning. Keeping company next to us was, it seemed a rather impatient driver in a minibus. The small overloaded tempo blocking his path didn't seem to care. The poor tempo was trying to overtake another small tempo travelling at 9. It was understandable that it took a whole five minutes for that to be successful. And the road was open. Nagarahole awaited us.

The stay was good and the return seemed better. It was late evening on a Sunday. The roads were calm enough and the wind seemed cool enough. Ramanagara was reached in good time. A really good dinner later, we set off behind a long line of lorries. The one behind the others was eager to get ahead and so we stuck behind him. After passing about three lorries, the driver put the indicator to the left. He was assumed to be overtaking from the left and we promptly moved left. But, he had other things in mind. He was simply moving to the left as the rules said he was supposed to. We should have realised this when his indicator actually worked. We were let down by the PB registered lorry. We were in turn passed by about eight cars.

Driving on Mysore road or the SH 17 was done and it was time to head home. Early enough to catch a decent sleep before work tomorrow.

The favour

2010-01-29T00:46:00.005+05:30

In 1950s New York, if one were to place a lot of faith in the works of Mario Puzo, a distressed family would now and then approach the local don. They would pay their respects and confide in the great man their earthly troubles. For even the great don could do little about their unearthly ones. The don would then proceed to nod his head sympathetically. He would then express his sincere desire to help them in these times of great distress. It was a sign of his friendship after all to help those close to his heart. A promise to do all that was in his power, here subtly insinuated to be vast and beyond compare, would soon follow. And as the family prepared themselves to leave the company of this august personality, the don would play the trump card, the card of humility. The don after all was a humble human, under the will of God. A day would come when the don too would fall under hard times, at this point a small prayer would escape his lips, and he would need the help of his dearest friends. Would he be any trouble for the family if he were to approach them, approach them he would only when faced with the greatest of distress his eyes seemed to convey, and asked for a small, nothing too big, help. The family, I believe, would be only too glad to oblige. Here was the great don himself with whom the politician ingratiated himself. And it was the decent thing to reciprocate, no matter how unlikely the prospect.

Time passed and the family was happy. One particularly pleasant evening, the don would call upon them for the favour that was owed. Usually the task at hand would be nothing outlandish. But once in a while the family would be screwed. And none too happy.

It had turned out the the don wanted the family to make good the loss he had to take in helping another of his dearest friends. The don was answerable to his family after all. If the amount was too great, the family could just approach the next bigger don and plead for their troubles. The bigger don would then do all in his power, here not-so-subtly insinuated to be ever more vast, to help the dearest of his friends. And so on.

During the final months of 2008 and for much of 2009 and big happy family of the "Masters of the Universe" approached the local don. They were in debt. And were still piling on losses. The money they had lent in good faith, their claim, was lost for ever never to be seen of again. The don waxed eloquent about the obligations of power and responsibility. The need to do the right thing even though nothing about it seemed right. And the need to be repaid for the timely help provided. With interest. The Masters grudgingly accepted. And it was not like they had a choice. And all their worst fears came to life one by one. The don proved to be excruciatingly overbearing, never missing an opportunity and creating several to tell all about the help he had offered in their time of need. Maybe the Masters missed the don's need to satisfy his family.

As the months passed, quite a few of the Masters had dug themselves enough out of the pit to repay the don. With interest. And glad were they to rid themselves that they forgot completely about the return favour. You see, the don had to help out the Big Car Man down the highway. And the Car Man couldn't pay back. The Masters were asked to cough up. Though they complained, there was not much they could do. For there was no bigger don. The banks had approached the ultimate don, the government.

The red carpet

2009-11-20T00:57:00.005+05:30

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

2009-10-13T22:37:00.005+05:30

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 we 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 is what 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

2009-08-26T17:36:00.000+05:30

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

2009-08-18T00:55:00.001+05:30

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

2009-07-12T21:36:00.001+05:30

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

2008-05-27T17:49:00.000+05:30

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

2008-04-26T14:44:00.000+05:30

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

2008-02-18T17:48:00.000+05:30

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

2008-01-19T14:26:00.000+05:30

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

2008-01-14T21:00:00.000+05:30

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.

Days

2008-01-08T21:33:00.000+05:30

I hadn't seen 7:30 in the morning since July. I still haven't. The fog was impenetrable. For the first time in many months, I woke up before 10am. But, I must say, Just Like You Imagined by the Nine Inch Nails remains unmatched as a wake up call in the cold foggy mornings of the Northern winter.

As I walked the lonely way to work at the early hour of eight in the morning, I felt different. I was something I hadn't done, ever. For the first time in as many months, I had breakfast. It later gave me an upset stomach. On the other hand, it was a brilliant time to come to work. There wasn't a soul in sight. I experienced my work place as I never had before. The complete silence, a little eerie at first, put me completely at ease. I thought of everything but the work, as I slipped on my headphones, letting the tunes from last.fm radio flow through me.

The amazed looks from my colleagues was what was most amusing. They saw me as if a ghost, while one even ventured enough to ask me whether I had actually left for the night the previous day. I had come to work a full four hours before my usual time. It was soon time for lunch, but I wasn't in the least bit hungry. But lunch wasn't what I looked forward to. It was the 15 minutes I spent with my friends after lunch that I looked forward to. The customary cigarette after a full lunch, the time spent with friends was for me a path to contentment. For those fifteen minutes in the afternoon, I am without a care in the world.

After lunch, I returned to my desk and for a comfortable hour I slept listening to music. As the clock ticked seven in the evening, it was time to leave for home. I knew that the evening would be a pleasant experience. Perhaps, I'll do this again someday. Come to work at eight in the morning. But not frequently. Because if I over-indulged, it would stop being the pleasant, comforting experience it was. Besides, I don't want my manager to think I had become the sort to come on time. He might expect me to do this everyday.

Evenings

2007-12-20T22:43:00.000+05:30

A cold night. A hot bath. A shot of vodka. A gently glowing cigarette tucked between by lips. "Rome wasn't built in a day" swaying me from the speakers. Lives were made for such nights. The melancholy washed away, leaving behind pure bliss. Welcome to Wonderland.

A hot bath after such long time, stepping out and curling into a warm sweater. A sense of shedding a layer not wanted. Sitting on a pillow, my back against the wall, I dry my hair. I have a sense that the evening is just beginning. A bottle of Orange Drink is opened. Sipping as though without a care in the world, I populate my playlist.

After I got back that evening, I found a bottle of vodka I had been looking for since a month. It was hidden in the freezer. Excellent. The shot glasses I had bought a while ago come out. While I let the vodka warm up a little, I heat up the water. This time I spend reading today's Indian Express on the internet. Nice editorial on the Indian position in the Bali Climate Conference. The Economist comes next. All while my water gently heats.

One shot goes in easily. The heat eagerly awaited. As I am swayed by the music, the glass is being filled. Time looses its track, on a yet unknown way. And as Amarok plays on, and as the minutes pass on, I realise I am back on track again. As though I had never left. Nights, cold silent nights, were made for such evenings.

I lay back drifting on to sleep. As though an afterthought, I'll say, "We must do this again sometime".

Nights

2007-12-15T18:29:00.000+05:30

It's all quiet out here. The cold, black nights. I sit alone on my bed covered in a thick blanket to keep out the cold. The glowing cigarette end is the only source of warmth in the desolate landscape that is my room. Seconds pass and so do the hours. I sit still staring at the blank wall in front of me. The blinking battery light on my laptop is my only companion. The only sign that the clock is still ticking; that the world is still turning.

It is a cold two in the morning. A faint mist now forms every time I breathe out. A lone dog barks in the distance and a car horn sounds closer. There are no memories of the day passed and no hints of the day yet to come. The light on the All-Out mosquito repellent comes on to tell me that the power is back on. That makes me realise that I wasn't even aware that the power was out. The moonlight filters through my window softening the industrial scene outside as I stare at the trees rustling in the light breeze. Not one sound is heard. Loneliness is such beautiful melancholy.

I walk across the roof covered in few layers of clothing. A vain attempt to keep out the cold that creeps through everything. The main road stretches out in front of me. The smooth immaculate surface of the road lit by tall golden yellow lights as far as I care to see. As I walk along the roof, beneath a flickering street light slowly rides a cycle rickshaw. He is covered in thick rugs, with just his eyes visible. The money must have been worth the cold fare.

Off in the distance, a car screeches to a halt, surprisingly managing to avoid another. Not a word is exchanged between the drivers. The cars move on. Only a group of dogs howl into the distance as if disturbed from their reverie. Not another soul stirs. A tall coloumn of smoke from a distant factory greets me as I turn towards the stairs. The smoke clings to the chimney as though afraid of the cold. I long for the familiar warmth of my bed as I slowly walk down the stairs. Sleep awaits. A heavy, dreamless sleep.

What's in a Name, after all?

2007-11-23T16:14:00.000+05:30

Yes, you might ask, "What's in a name, after all?". And you might be right most of the time. A rose by any other name will have thorns just as sharp. But, to a select few, it matters a lot. And what matters to them is not your name per se, but rather, how many alphabets are there in your name.

Questions like, "Why?", "Who?", and "What!!?", might pop into your head. Let me answer them. It all began when I decided to fly to Bangalore for my convocation. And I usually used MakeMyTrip.com to book my tickets online. It was a simple, no-nonsense site that gave me good fares and let me get on with the job quickly. All that changed last week. I entered my name, "Tarun R" and said go. But, no! I have an invalid name. An invalid name? Apparently there needs to be atleast "two characters" in my last name. Screw them I said. But any travel website I visited gave me this helpful tip. Your name is invalid. Really now, of all the stupid validations to put on a website, two characters in your name is a bit much. On top of that, the place where I enter "R" reads Last Name/Initial. Come now, can't my initial be just one character? Because of that little check, I decided to book my flights on the websites of the airlines themselves. But, even there, I was greeted by that tip. Sure, the R in my name stands for "Ramesh", my dad's name and I could have used that. But, my only photo ID proof is my driver's license and that says "Tarun R". If the names won't match, forget the boarding pass, the security won't even let me enter the airport. So, in the end the only airlines that tolerated my name were SpiceJet and IndiGo. That little stupidity cost the websites and the airlines Rs 8000.

Speaking of airline websites, one of the travel websites showed me a flight that had a really convenient time for my return journey. An Air Deccan flight. So, because of my intolerable name, I went to the Air Deccan website. I was met by this really loud screen of red, perhaps suggested by Vijay Mallya to cement his take-over of Deccan. Talk about bad taste. Moving on, I selected a one-way trip and entered the source as Bangalore. At this moment, I was greeted by a rather friendly message, "Error in function ClearAreaList. Error = undefined". So, there you have it. Perhaps this was because they hadn't tested this site on Firefox running on Linux. If so, their ineptitude just cost them Rs 4012. Talk about expensive stupidity!

Snippets

2007-10-31T15:41:00.000+05:30

Life. In little slides.

A drawn-out fight for over-priced beer

A party in a little known corner in Haryana, by the company, for the company. It was thrown to welcome the new employees since July, 2007. The party was scheduled at 4 pm and we were told that the cabs would be arranged for us and we would be picked up from our homes. But we never knew when the cabs would come.

It was a chilly early afternoon that I woke up to at 11 am. The shower was a torture. It was at 12:30, the exact moment that I was completely covered in soap and shampoo, that the cab driver knocked on my door. Pleading with him to wait a few minutes was of no avail. Finally, as I hurried myself out of the shower and got some clothes on, I called up the driver and asked him to come by my place again. And so it was, that we finally arrived at the resort.

The entire event went well, I guess. I wasn't in the centre of things. Except for one tiny detail. No beer! We agreed that perhaps beer was off the menu, but we could buy it ourselves if we wanted to. Step in this little do-gooder fellow employee, who was supposed to be the "coordinator" who talked the resort guys into putting beer completely off the menu. And I mean completely. We saw our doubts turn to murderous intent as the barmen mentioned our dear coordinator. In the end, after much squabbling and negotiations, we finally had beer at Rs. 200 a pop. Expensive yes. But we convinced ourselves it was a moral victory.

Trash it. Treasure it

The concept of bay decoration was forced down my throat by my enthusiastic team. I admit to swallowing it willingly. We were to decorate our bays and parade them in front of touring judges. Enthusiasm was high (among my team, that is), but ideas were low. We saw people setting up beauty parlors, 'chor bazaars', and pan shops in their bays. But, we were stumped. At literally the last minute, we decided to do what was the only option. We decided to trash it.

We brought empty soft-drink bottles from the cafeteria, empty 25 litre water cans from various water dispensers. We dumped them in our bay. Next on the line were paper cups and empty tea-bag boxes. They too were dumped in our bay. Next in line were hand bags, jackets, shoes and various other articles of clothing. Chairs were brought from all the desks in our bay and dismantled and strewn around. Then came the phones from our desks. They too were dismantled and thrown about, albeit rather artfully. An old CRT monitor, various keyboards and mice were added to the growing pile of mess. A huge pile of used paper was lifted from the printer room to give the final touch. And as the judges came around, we put up a sign saying, "Rabdiwallah", i.e. the recycling mart with notices promoting recycling stuck everywhere. A pair of broken headphones, still very usable, artfully straddled the sign. If not for the judges arriving just then, we could have brought empty milk packets from the neighbourhood tea shop.

What took little less than half-an-hour to create, took us more than 2 hours to clean up. All of it hasn't been cleaned up yet, even though it has been close to a week. In the end, it was the pan shop that won. But, it did not matter. We decided to recycle this idea for the next time.

Ode to 218

2007-10-18T23:31:00.000+05:30

And so it was, at the setting of our mighty Sun, that we stood upon a small hill. With grassy plains surrounding, bordered at the farthest by a dense growth of hemp, we assembeled the Elders, the Knowers and the Thinkers. For amongst them was the Fire. The Fire in us all.

The Elder amongst the Elders received the Fire and lit the grassy knoll surrounding. And as the music in our hearts reached a cressendo, we indulged in the Feast of the Goat. We gazed at the Inferno, our minds in awe, as the beacon passed amongst us. For we consumed the essence of our world, without a word spoken, with our hearts in unison.

As the night came to its glorious end, and our mighty Sun rose over the horizon wreathed in a halo of Blue haze, we awoke to a new world. Our minds cleansed.

A fond picture book

2007-10-14T19:02:00.000+05:30

As I woke up today at 10 in the morning, to open the door to my insufferable landlord demanding the monthly rent, I realised that my life had descended into a comfortable yet a claustrophobic rut. Stuck out in Sector 62, the veritable boondocks of Noida, something was missing. What did I desire? An escape. I hadn't the faintest idea. I still don't.

Did I really want an escape? I was happy, wasn't I? I liked it here, didn't I? Perhaps I longed for the times in which I was truly happy. The feel of a home in which you are welcome and a home you longed to return to. After I saw my landlord off, contended with the thick wad of Rupee notes tucked away in his trouser pockets, I promptly fell asleep. Only to be woken up by a turbulent dream. A hazy picture of a home no longer.

The day was chilly. The onset of the winter of the North. I needed to clear my head with a mundane activity. I cleaned my apartment. I swept and mopped the floors, took out the trash which had piled up over two weeks and organised my wardrobe. The absence of my room-mate gave me the peace and quiet I so needed. Tired of the heavy cleaning, I stuck my head under the shower. My hair badly needed some cleaning. As I stood under the shower with the cold water pouring over me, I felt at home. Yet, I wasn't home.

As the cold water pitter-pattered on the floor and the cold breeze chilled me further, that hazy picture of my dream came into focus. I had dreamt of college. My college during the beginning of the seventh semester. The days of true happiness before I had so gloriously fuck'd up. The cold water and the strong breeze reminded me of the few days in the beginning of seventh semester, in which I, on the third floor of my hostel, welcomed the hey-days of the monsoons of Mangalore with a sheer uncontrollable bliss. I remembered the days on which the water drummed fiercely on the young leaves of the trees, cleaning off their dust and bringing to light their bright green faces. Returning to the hostel soaked from college only to be mesmerised by the bright, throughly drenched, greenery that surrounded me.

As I sat in my third floor room, with the windows wide open with little regard to the computer lying right next to them, I sat soaking in the spray brought in by the fierce breeze that blew in from the sea. The rains always came in at about four in the evening always accompanied by the breeze that brought such joy. As I sat getting drenched, there was nothing on my mind, but the fine cold spray which brought such freshness to my world. As the rain ended, the leaves dripping with water on the road to the beach made the picture complete.

For me, the monsoons of Mangalore are no longer. That chapter of my life has been written. The time to write a new one has arrived. Only when it is finished can I say whether it is worth reading again and again. Much like a fond little picture book we thumb through when we are feeling down.

Years down the line

2007-09-25T22:11:00.000+05:30

Perhaps this is best pictured as a what-if scenario. May it never come true.

It all started when I was but a wee lad when visiting relatives from far off lands of wealth and mystery dropped in at our home. Their presence filled us, still unable to find the means to leave this land of poverty and stagnation, with awe and wonder. Their very presence made our lives that much more pleasurable. They sat me down next to them and asked me a question. A question they assumed to stimulate an intellectual conversation. And as they asked the question, the humble people at our home waited with bated breath for me to answer the question.

The Question?

Ah, yes. The Question. The Question in question, never really left me. For I was always asked, " Where do you see yourself ten years from now?". I finally decided to exorcise the ghost of this question. The ghost of the lies and the barely concealed half truths in the interviews. The ghost of the irritation I felt each time I heard the Question. Yes, it is time. Where do I see myself ten years from now?

Years down the line

I see myself commuting in heavy traffic to a job I barely tolerate. I see myself waiting at the traffic lights as the light continues to stay red. I wait of the chance to jump the moment it turns amber. I sit at my desk wondering whether what I did yesterday, was what I did any other day. In a life in which even the outer lane is the slow lane.

I see myself in a neatly pressed shirt and crisp trousers. I see myself with neatly trimmed hair and a clean shaved face. I see myself using words like "business logic", which I presume is more money grubbing as compared to normal logic which is more egalitarian, benevolent and works of the benefit of all humanity.

I see myself happily participating in approved fun events, organising fairs to improve employee morale. I see myself in a world where my job is the centre of my life. A life in which I want to say, as Eric Cartman did, "Screw you guys, I'm going home" to my superiors, but unable to summon the courage to. I see myself in a life which is anything but.

Help!

Of Books and Bargains

2007-09-10T22:33:00.000+05:30

A question. Have you spent in one day more than your monthly expenses on rent, water, electricity, food, and clothes put together? If so, on what? Answering my own question, well, I have. Pray on what you ask? On what else, but books!

A small request before I go on and on about this rather addictive experience. Please don't label me an intellectual snob. I put this before you not to show off, but rather to share this very pleasant experience with you. Moving on, allow me to welcome all you ignorant masses to the thrills of the 13th Annual Delhi Book Fair. Spread over four halls of the Pragati Maidan in New Delhi, it is the most compelling place to loose your mind and loosen your wallet. Books to the left of me, books to the right; here I was, very pleasantly stuck in the middle. Accompanied by none other that his Lordship, Sir Ajit (B.Tech, O.B.E, F.R.C.S and Supreme Commander of all Universe), I travelled the halls purchasing books left, right and any other direction.

Sweet, sweet print!

In the second stall we visited, I found in two volumes, the complete history, works, criticisms, and descriptions of the one and only Salvador Dali. And the asking price, only Rs. 1700. Not a problem. In the next stall I find rare works on the histories of Sikkim and Bhutan. In the next stall, an excellent collection of Ruskin Bond's travel writings. Well, you can easily picture my delight as I stumble from store to store laden with my heavy purchases. Along the halls I find an entire stall dedicated to the Gnanapeet awardees. Nirmal Verma's "Lal tin ki chath" is added to the growing booty.

Turn the corner and what do I see? A book on the architectural splendor present in Chandini Chowk. And I kid you not, this book, this seminal book has been written by the Member of Parliament of Chandini Chowk. This book is replete with beautiful pictures of really awe inspiring buildings in present day Shahjahanabad. What a lucky constituency to have such an MP. It just makes you fall in love with the old Dilli. As I walk along, books on the histories of Kabul and Kandahar get added to the already heavy booty. Butterball by Guy de Maupassant, The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux and the collected food writings by Vir Sanghvi just to add the finishing touches. I am a child in a chocolate factory.

Better bargains than your local grocer

The one reason I refused to go vegetable shopping when I was in Bangalore is because I can't bargain to save my life. I never bothered to pick up the art (as brilliantly displayed by Vivek S at the Palika Bazaar), preferring to quietly pay up the asking price. Bargaining for your vegetables is one thing. But, bargaining for a Certification Examination? That too is now possible. For it has been done.

Allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine by the name of Vaibhav D. Mild mannered techie by day. Feared bargain hunter by night. For he has taken the process of bargaining from a passing skill to the level of the darkest of arts. His mere presence sends many a shop to pull down their Sale signs. And his claim to fame? He has successfully bargained to reduce the price of the SCJP examination by Rs 2100.

For the uninitiated, SCJP stands for Sun Certified Java Programmer, a certification examination offered by Sun Microsystems. Their asking price for the examination? Rs 7200. And the price he paid? Rs 5100. Like I said, a dark dark art. Imagine what I would do with a dark art like that. Today the Delhi Book Fair, tomorrow the world! No on can stop me!

No, must not reveal evil plans to take over the world...

The ins and outs

2007-09-04T22:18:00.000+05:30

Perhaps I should begin by saying that I don't usually put up reviews lest I impose my views on the unsuspecting populace. Setting aside the fact that the said populace usually counts in the single digits, principles are principles. Now, however, I shall make an exception. My currents thoughts on one book and and one film have been around for some time. I shall now put them forth.

The Anthology of the fake Potters

Harry Potter, the series, has been around for some time. Many many reviews have been written and quoted in various articles. This series has been seminal in the amount of mass hysteria it had managed to create. That aside, here I intend to shine a tiny light on a very ignored facet of this media circus. The Fake Harry Potters.

All this media exposure has brought into light, I think for me at least, the very questionable writing and story-telling skills of the author of the original Harry Potter series. Many thoughts have been put down by others on this matter, so, I shall refrain from stepping into that arena. I now shall take you through my experiences of reading the many fake books of the Harry Potter series. These are not the many parodies that have been written. These are what the masses call "fan novels". The books written by people who are not J K Rowling carrying the same title as the original books.

In my opinion, a few of these books have better writing and more compelling a story that the originals. Speaking particularly on the seventh and hopefully the last in the series, one fake novel in particular had a much better story that the original. The plot of the book was simpler and explained the mysteries of the previous six book in much simpler scenarios. No far fetched objects of mystery. No out of this world, perhaps even out of the magical world, explanations for the happenings of the previous books. In fact, I seriously wish that this book was the original and not that disaster of a story that is actually the original. This book I speak of begins with the chapter titled "Secrets Unraveled". Do read it if you get the chance. After reading this one, I almost wish that I hadn't read the original.

Before time, there was the Cube

Yes. The Cube. That's right. Please feel free to express utter incredulity and amusement at this line. Once upon a time, in the creative depths of Hollywood, there was made a movie called The Transformers. That movie, which began with the line, "Before time, there was the Cube" narrated in the usual movie trailer voice, was released upon the innocent masses.

The Cube? Really? Couldn't the makers of the movie who spent copious money think of something better? Perhaps this is the dawn of a new era, an era of movies best described as a sort of visual pornography. Let's list the similarities between this movie and run-of-the-mill B-grade pornography, shall we? In B-grade pornographies, they have sex just because they can. In this movie they have eye-popping visual effects just because they can. In the B-grade pornographies, the plot is irrelevant. In this movie, the plot is irrelevant. The plot is just an instrument to make the movie last 90 minutes. Truly speaking, this movie had a cornier plot line and cornier dialogues than most B-grade pornographies.

The story consisted of giant robots from outer space fighting, threatening to destroy the cities of the Earth in the process. The chief villain in question is called "Megatron" and the robot species are called "AutoBots". What were they on when they came up with these names? This is straight from those Japanese serials about giant robots from the early 90's we used to watch eagerly. And the cube, that which existed before time, is responsible for everything for it was the font of all life, and Megatron seeks it to become all powerful. For the love of God people, please don't make the mistake of watching this absurdity and wasting good money.

Now that my views have been imposed the unsuspecting populace, I hope they make of it what ever they will.

The Java Diaries. Version 1, Release 2

2007-08-23T22:02:00.000+05:30

Please allow me to apologize for my previous post. It was but an ill disguised rant.

Here we are with the new features and bug fixes as promised. Hello all. This piece stands before you all stripped of the previous gloom and doom of the previous post. It was not the end of the world as we knew it. For I still stand unblemished, though a bit homogenized. I suppose that was inevitable. As I see it, real life has more to pain you and more to please you than I could ever imagine. The exhilaration of the freedom, the trepidity of doing for the first time what you took for granted from your parents, all balanced by the sweet burden of responsibility.

And so it begins

Welcome to my life. A life long dreamed of. Though it is not a dream come true, the independence, having made it by myself in a new land, is a feeling I will for ever treasure. This is part of the reason I chose to come to Noida. To see if I could make it by myself. To remove from myself that jaded feeling. To learn new and experience new. It has been about two months now, and, life is comfortable.

Work, work, work?

Not really. As it turns out, I am to work in Perl and I could ask for little else that would be better. Perhaps, a Linux workstation. Yes, that would be the sweet cherry on top of this very delectable ice-cream cone. I get to do what I like and when I am doing so, it really doesn't seem like work, work, work. Sometimes, I feel as though I am taking advantage. My my! what did I just say? Euphoria makes you say strange things indeed.

Well, so it is. May it also be.

The Java Diaries. Version 1, Release 1

2007-07-30T18:31:00.000+05:30

Imagine a world filled with rows upon unending rows filled with the eerie glow from CRT monitors. A world filled with anonymous emaciated slaves furiously typing away at a badly worn keyboard. A world of little light and lesser humanity. Imagine yourselves entering a narrow dim-lit corridor only to be met by a room with a board proclaiming it to be the "music room" with a bold notice saying "Please do not touch and play with the instruments". Welcome to my world.

A reality check

Granted. Perhaps my world is not as bad as that. But the part about the "music room" is definitely true. So far life as a working man, a yuppie, has been quite pleasant. Though the air conditioning is being a bit nauseating. The city of NOIDA, being both decently planned and relatively free of pollution, has been quite enjoyable. One point of interest is the Shipra Mall located in Ghaziabad. Note, this is not your stereotypical mall of unimaginative glass and steel with large hoardings and banners filled with in-your-face advertising. This mall is architecturally beautiful, reminiscent of an ancient Greek or Roman edifice. The advertising, though present, is understated and tastefully placed. Adjoining the mall is a large lawn and a small amphitheatre, sitting where, one can while away the time listening to good music from WorldSpace radio. All in all, a very livable place this. But, I digress. The point of this piece was to vent my ire.

Venting my ire

My day dawns at the unearthly hour of 8:30 am. I make my way, like countless other hapless souls in overcrowded means of transport, to the "code factory floor". OK, perhaps I should stop exaggerating. But, in my half asleep state, such a metaphor is not beyond imagination. When we clock in at 9:30 am, the training hall is already filling with just as half asleep folks taking their seats, not quite looking forward to the day. For, the training is being conducted as though the end of the world was to be tomorrow. We, the unwitting trainees are being stuffed with Java knowledge like a duck with herbs before a delectable preparation of pâté de foie gras. Perhaps the company is hoping that we will turn out to be just as delectable with our Java code. They may be out for a sad disappointment. Except perhaps from the Grandfathers of all Java Knowledge. That brings me to this question.

What in this God forsaken world of coding is a pseudo-address?

Yes, a pseudo-address. You know, a fake address. As to why anyone would want a fake address is beyond me. Allow me to explain the context behind this question. Those who are uninterested in the world of coding may feel free to skip this paragraph, but please continue to sympathise with me. In our cozy little group of trainees exists a group of two or three individuals who consider themselves to be the Grandfathers of all Java Knowledge. I am sure there are quite a few here with good knowledge in Java, but this term applies only to those select few with an uncanny ability to make up impressive sounding nonsensical jargon in an instant. Yes, I am talking of the few who ask magnificent and complicated doubts, that they themselves but half understand, just to look smart and knowledgeable. In one such doubt asking sessions, one of the venerable Grandfathers, while completely aware that Java doesn't disclose the memory locations of the Objects due to security considerations, asked the befuddled trainer how one would go about obtaining the memory location of an Object. He proposed further that the function hashcode() called on an Object would return only an integer and that integer perhaps referred to a pseudo-address. My sincere advise to you, Sir, is "let it go". You are not impressing anyone and you are just being an annoying &^%$! to everyone.

That said, please expect many new features and bug fixes in The Java Diaries. Version 1, Release 2.

The cult of YHAI

2007-07-14T20:40:00.000+05:30

Dear people, dear dear readers, I am here today to give you a brief insight into a new cult I have discovered. As the first thing you notice, this cult doesn't try to disguise itself as a religion. Though you have to religiously have to follow its principles. Let's begin, shall we?

The discovery

My beautiful journey of discovery started while preparing to climb the treacherous slopes of the Himalayas. When I landed at their Base, I was completely amazed by this little community of people living in simple dwellings made of canvas. Their existence was so peaceful. The people laughed and the children played. I was then introduced to the Leaders of this little "camp". I was then told how this little camp would be the centre of my life during my sojourn with the Cult. I looked around. I didn't mind it in the least. I saw the people laughing, I saw the children playing, and as I laughed and played along with them, I saw my life change for the better in front of my own eyes. The Cult filled my heart with all the goodness and hope for all of humanity. I am now here to share this joyous discovery with all of you. Join me, become one of us, and for every person that does, the world shall become a better place.

The member

The journey up the Himalayas wouldn't have been possible without the help of this beautiful Cult. I, was happy. I was welcomed into their fold like I was part of their own. In the freezing cold of the Himalayas, I was free, I was contended. I assumed the part of the Member with flourish. And I welcomed the part I was given in this little group with open arms. The thought me how to live and be. I was born anew. For I knew I could start from fresh. The ways of the Cult amazed me, yet was in a sublime way, very familiar.

The rituals

Life in the little dwellings was made so much more. The little rites and rituals made everyone more spirited and the world more lovable.These little rituals become so much a part o your live that you cherish every moment of them. You welcome the little person who calls you out in time for those rituals. You love the beginnings, when elaborate speeches are made by the Leaders, the process of preparations, the chants and the cries and the dances during the rituals, and the endings, when teary eyed, the Leaders bid you a fond farewell and you with a heavy heart part with this joyous occasion. Dear readers, come with me and I shall take you on a little journey amongst our rituals, amongst our very way of life.

Fire! Fire!

Campfire! So goes the cry. This little performance fills our heart with excitement, lifting us amidst the chorus to a place far far away. Thus, every night we leave our little dwellings and join the throng at this little pit with a twig and multi-coloured light bulbs. The eldest amongst the Leaders lights the little bulbs while we scream "Fire! Fire! Campfire!" The dances, the songs that follow, sets up the mood for a mellow night. And when this ritual ends, we gaze in awe at ourselves. We have a new hope.

Fertilising the fields

As a rite of passage, we were to "Fertilise the fields".It is the rite of passage for the Members to prove to the Cult that they were committed to the Cult. We were given a bottle of water and sent off into the the woods surrounding the little camp. We walked on, bearing the urge within ourselves, to find a place of solitude. When this place was discovered, we carefully concealed ourselves and began the process of "Fertilising the fields". We sang to ourselves while we went about our work, tunelessly mouthing the words of the song of the ritual. "Hello everybody, please raise your shields. Merrily merrily merrily I'm off to fertilise the fields". Those that completed this rite of passage would go on to complete this journey in comfort. Those that didn't would be shunned and would return home in ignominy. This rite would never be the same for everyone. One of our new brethren was chased by a horse on the mountain sides in near freezing temperatures. While another of our brethren used the omnipresent hemp to cleanse himself, thus earning a distinct place in our little Cult.

If you have liked what you read, then come, join us and for as little as Rs 50.00 for a year, lets us make this world a better place.

The story of Strange Benefits

2007-04-04T06:13:00.000+05:30

The story of Strange Benefits is the story of a road, a road so beaten that we shall place a wreath by its side and mourn its tragic demise. It lived a short but useful life, but it left much to be done.

The Road

The road is known by many and adored by a few as NH-17. This veritable life line runs through the heartland of industrial coastal Karnataka connecting its major ports and industries. We, the students of NITK, know and adore this road for we cross this sliver of land every day. Small shops and eateries line this road on either side giving it the atmosphere of a home long remembered and seldom visited. The line of shops punctuated liberally with seedy bars serve to relieve the working men and women of their daily grind. The cool breeze from the beach cools the afternoons and evenings from the blistering tropical Sun. Lining the road are trees of all sizes giving a touch of cool colour to the sore dust filled eyes of the travelers. But, the road is not healthy. For it suffers.

The Authority

The stepping in of the National Highway Authority of India to relieve the road of its pain was met with much protests and litigation over land acquisition. We would widen the road said the Authority. We would loose our businesses said the people. In the end, the Authority prevailed and the land was acquired. The land so acquired was flattened and a bed of gravel was laid. And all the while the students of NITK were but mute spectators.

The Pledge

Near the gates of the campus of NITK lie various small shacks that serve as kiosks serving coffees, teas, various crisps and, most important of all, cigarettes. Realising this, one starry night filled with lifting colours drifting along with our minds, we arrived at a consensus. We shall help the Authority, we said. The road was dying and we needed to save it. We shall be more than mute spectators, we said. And our pledge? We would donate our lungs to the cause.

How would that help, you might ask. But, you see, copious smoking fills your lungs with tar. Enormous amounts of tar. And we asked ourselves, enormous enough to help asphalt this stretch of land that has stolen our hearts? Perhaps. Perhaps enough to transform this tiny road into a highway worthy of the "National Highway" name.

The Road is dead. Long live the Road.

Of musical Wizardry and of musical Snobbery

2006-12-07T22:47:00.000+05:30

It's Habba people!

Bangalore in December is simply brilliant. The weather chills you to the bone on those long drives back home on your bike of choice. Back from the cultural and artistic extravaganza that is Bengalooru Habba. Concerts and dances and dramatics and you-name-its all within a span of a week in over 10 different locations all over Bangalore make this a memorable week.

The Gayana Samaja.

It is this association near the Fort High School where mostly classical concerts are held. The area is not frequented by the fashionable and hence not on the to-go-to list of the hip and the happening. This is the haunt of the no frills serious connoisseurs of classical music.

The Concert!

December 6, 2006 was a musical high-point for me. It was the day I attended the Veena recital by one Kannan Balakrishnan along with Vivek and Jayanth. It was definitely the best the Habba had to offer so far and I might go as far as to say that this concert will be in among the best that I will ever attend. Ever.

Even though the event suffered a poor attendance, the artists performed their miracle. As a sign of appreciation, this sound, "Ptlech" is uttered by the "connoisseurs". These utterances are often at every perceived musical wizardry and are quite frequent and quite irritating. To have some fun at their expense, Jayanth and Vivek started spouting the sound at every other instant during which the crowd was silent. As though this was not enough, a mobile phone started to go off very loudly. I turned back and uttered the sound as a mark of annoyance. In the next instant the same sound was uttered by a couple of elderly connoisseurs seated behind me!

The concert of a life time peppered with fun and musical extacy.

The Worth of a college T-Shirt

2006-12-02T00:31:00.000+05:30

I write this piece mentally picturing the finger to all those snobs who are ashamed to wear a T-shirt from a college they were once a part of.

The setting:

I am in Bangalore on some work and I am heading back to college. I arrive at the KSRTC bus-stand and hop on the first bus that is heading in the direction of Mangalore. The bus is bound for Hassan. The bus leaves Bangalore at 12:30 pm and due to a delay, arrives in Hassan at 5:45 pm. I hop on the bus to Mangalore at 6:30 pm, which arrives in Mangalore at 12:30 am.

Now, my college isn't in Mangalore, but a little way off. The last bus that heads that way leaves at 10:45 pm. That being the case, I am stranded at the KSRTC bus-stand in Mangalore at the God forsaken hour of 12:30 am.

The chance encounter:

The seats in the bus-stand aren't very comfortable and sleep is next to impossible. I place my head on my knees and try to catch up on some sleep. Minutes seem like hours and after wandering around the bus-stand for the umpteenth time, I finally settle down on a seat with my head on my knees.

At about 2:00 am, I get a tap on my back. "Are you going to Surathkal?", comes the question. Yes is my reply.
"Come, we'll give you a drop."

The bike ride at 2 am:

To say I'm surprised would be an understatement. How did they know? "We saw your T-shirt. We have two bikes and we'll give you a drop to your college". I was wearing the T-shirt from the college fest of two years past and my college name was clearly visible on the back.

2 am is a brilliant time to ride a bike all-out on the highway. Unfortunately, the term "highway" is highly figurative here and road left much to be desired. Where the road is decent, the ride is pleasant. I reach my college at 2:30 in the am. What a night!

And... Thank you, Zubin from NITTE, for that bike ride.

Ode to DSP

2006-11-19T14:24:00.000+05:30

At the outset let me clarify that the DSP mentioned above is not the DSP Black, which as a healthy substitute for blood courses through our veins. It is plain and simple Digital Signal Processing.

Why an ode? Let's see, shall we.

Last week I read a review of Paris Hilton's album, Paris, in the Express. The byline of that review said "Amazon.com". So I go to Amazon.com. There were about 250 reviews of Paris on that site. I read about 25 customer reviews and of course the spotlight reviews. They ranged from bitter to sarcastic with some very funny ones thrown in-between. But not one of them showed the album in positive light.

Who cares for reviews anymore? I wasn't satisfied with just the reviews. I now had to listen to her sing. Enter YouTube. The connection was decent and the video played without interruptions. After the video I sit back and this thought flashes by me. "That must have been some recording equipment". Really, I want to work for the company which made that marvel of a signal processing equipment. That marvel which transformed the very voice that grunted "That's hot" at every possible drop of a hat to the voice that sang "Stars are blind".

Eating my words

2006-10-07T01:36:00.000+05:30

Flashback:

Please picture a fading image amidst a mass of swirling clouds. I could post that here, but that would consume a lot of bandwidth.

The year is 1994. I am preparing for my third standard final exam. I am looking forward to this exam and actually quite excited. While I am going about my preparatons, my mom, sitting next to me narrates the story of how she faced the final exam of her first year in M.Sc. I listen with rapt attention. She tells me how she went to the exam hall without even bothering to check if there was enough ink in the pen. The pen ran out of ink in the middle and she had to borrow another from someone. I mentally clucked my toungue. How could someone be so irresponsible. An education must be taken seriously. It is a question of your future.

Please picture a fading image amidst a mass of swirling clouds again.

This incident quietly faded away into the dusty attic of my memory.

Present day:

No need to picture a fading image amidst a mass of swirling clouds now.

Yesterday actually.

I am now to face a somewhat minor, but nonetheless important, exam in one of my courses. The exam is scheduled at 9 am and I haven't yet begun to study at 1 am. After finishing all the 26 episodes of Samurai Champloo (my animé flavour of the day) at about 1:30 am, I finally decide to give studying a try. At this point, I realise that I have none of the reading material. Thanks to the LAN, and a very accomodating friend, I acquire them.

The hour of the exam arrives, and am I prepared? I arrive at the exam hall with a borrowed answer booklet. I take a seat. I fish out my calculator to check if it is working. It is. My pen comes next. Atleast it has enough ink to last through the exam. I have a feeling that the exam will be short. Not because the paper will be easy, but rather I will have little to write. At this moment I remember a certain story my mom narrated 12 years ago.

Hello future.

Oh, to drive a Car

2006-07-22T22:36:00.000+05:30

July 7, 2006 will be quite a memorable day for me. That is the day the Republic of India awarded me the privilege to drive a car.

This, for me, was a struggle that spanned two years. I shall tell you how.

Attempt 1, July 22, 2004

Just when my vacations were being spent doing what I like (absolutely nothing), I was bullied by my parents into applying for a driver's license. After pointlessly resisting for a month, I relented. The test was due on July 22, 2004.

I am an idealist. I believe in the basic goodness of humanity. And then, there is the RTO. I went expecting the worst. And boy did I get it. The RTO, Jayanagar inspector made me run back and forth several times to get various irrelevant documents signed. I finally lost my cool, screamed at him for five minutes, and telling him where he could go, I left.

The intermission

The vacations of 2005 passed with me happily indisposed and couldn't be bothered about a driver's license.

Attempt 2, July 07, 2006

As a challenge to myself and to prove a point to no one in particular I said a resolute "no" to kick-backs of any sort. I hoped against hope that RTO, Jayanagar wouldn't let me down.

I went to the RTO a week before July 7 and filled out the required forms and paid the prescribed fee. The day arrived, and soon the hour arrived with the RTO inspector nowhere to be seen. The test was to take place in front of the Jain temple. There was no sign of that. I finally decided to wait at a spot where a couple of others, equally lost, were waiting. I cautiously approached them and asked them whether they were there for the test as well. They said they were and they were waiting at that spot because I was. Poor bastards... I didn't have the heart to tell them that I was waiting there because they were.

The test finally started at the prescribed spot, albeit two hours late. I was the last in line and the test went smoothly. The inspector passed me. One week later, I collected my DL.

I was pleasently surprised that RTO, Jayanagar did not betray my hopes. I got my license without any hassles, kick-backs or "driving schools". Perhaps this is a sign of things to come. Then again, I might be hoping against hope.

For now, I am the proud owner of a shiny new Driver's License.

Laughter, perhaps the only medicine

2006-06-11T16:00:00.000+05:30

At the outset, I would like to apologise for the rather long delay. You see, I was down with a little bout of fever. During that time your mind wanders, as mine did. I decided to wander through all that, that had made me laugh or even smile through the years.

The first thing that came to mind was a cartoon by Ponnappa in the Times of India (which other than that is what some might term a sleaze rag). It was on the day Jayalalitha(a) got re-elected as Tamil Nadu chief minister. On that very day, the sequel to the movie The Mummy, The Mummy Returns had been released. The cartoon depicted a figure of Jayalalitha(a) with the caption "The Mummy Returns".

Time flies with funny forwards. Some are hilarious and you appreciate the genius behind them. Some are just wrong. But time flies none the less. In a recent flood of such forwards, I found our beloved Arjun Singh to be the butt of many a joke. For those of you not familiar with Arjun Singh, he is the one partially responsible for the upcoming quota raj. Though this is not one of the many forwards recieved, one picture of Arjun Singh in the Indian Express is still fresh in my memory. He is seated in the VIP section and above his chair is a large signboard that reads "Reserved".

Here I show just a glimpse of my wanderings hoping you enjoyed what you saw.

Of Laloo and the Railways

2006-06-06T17:36:00.000+05:30

Any Business and Economics publication worth its salt has carried at one time or another, the story of the resurrection of the Indian Railways. And as they say, its all thanks to one man at the helm of the affairs. The one and only Laloo Prasad Yadav.

The man perhaps single handedly responsible for bringing Bihar to the brink of disaster is perhaps single handedly responsible for injecting new life into the railways. For the first time since I can recall, railway passenger fares have fallen. With increasing revenues, falling fares and global CEOs wanting to "walk the Laloo track", this is indeeed a turnaround for the railways so far mismanaged by various specimens.

One of the latest stories on Laloo and the Railways was in the Indian Express. It said, " Laloo has brought about this change without using any heavy weight management concepts or using the services of global consultants like E & Y. But, by using simple and down to Earth management fundamentals.". Perhaps there is a lesson in this for all. The IIMs seemed to have realised this and are making it the subject of a case-study. Why stop there? How about a case-study in Sociology or Political Science. To come from the interior cow-belts of Bihar to the subject of an IIM case-study is a long journey.

The "O, to B or not to B, C" fiasco

2006-06-04T17:41:00.000+05:30

I thought I would say my few words while this issue was still fresh in our minds and before all dissent was drowned in the name of political correctness.

I was reading the Indian Express a few days back and as we can all recall, the paper was replete with stories on the upcoming Quota Raj. I always found the concept of carrying a piece of paper issued by a figure of authority saying that the person was "backward", repulsive. I mean, how humiliating is that!
As I continued to read the paper, I stumbled upon a large ad on the front page itself whose first few lines read:

"OBC
Increasing interest rates on deposits by 1%"

This was followed by a complicated table listing out the various new rates for deposits of different time periods. I thought to myself that the OBC catagory are netting quite a windfall here. Not only are they getting a quota to themselves, but also getting an increase in interest rates on bank deposits. Not bad.

As I continued to the end of the ad, I saw the last line which read:

"Oriental Bank of Commerce"

Intro

2006-06-03T12:53:00.000+05:30

Hello.

After answering about a hundred questions on my so far non-existant blog, I finally decided to get a space for my thoughts, my views and my words in edgewise on this World Wide Web. I'm sure a lot of people out there couldn't care less about my thoughts, my views and my words in edgewise. But the urge to make myself heard, or in this case viewed, was, simply put, irresistable.

Disclaimer:
The views expressed in this weblog reflect the views of the author.
Please feel free to leave comments and for the love of God don't use SMS language.
It's called the fine print for good reason.