Notes from the Land of five rivers

The Punjab means the Land of the five rivers, as any schoolboy who knows his geography instead of fiddling with his I-phone could tell you in the passing. But what he may not be able to tell is that the Indus still flows in the region of Punjab; only that it happens to be in the neighbouring country of Pakistan. The fiddler would have googled it. One fine day, one of my friend's: SK decided to get married. In April. This year. In the Punjab. So the three of us, me, Akshay and Shveta [1]; who had the mind and the presence of it to get our hols at the same time decided to attend the wedding armed with The Lonely Planet. I was pitch-forked from the rice and rasam eaters to the very rarely rice and not quite heard of rasam eaters.

Gathering my hastily packed rather stuffed luggage, I lumbered to the Hazrat Nizamuddin station to board the train to Jalandhar at the unearthly hour of six or thereabouts in the morning bleary eyed and moving torpidly (attributed to negative traces of caffeine in my veins) to find the two of them cheerful with wide smiles even at this hour. A consensus revealed that scalding hot beverages of choice in Styrofoam cups was the need of the hour more than anything else. Leaving the lady armed with a handbag nee black hole to stand, guard the luggage, the two hunks; one with a razor sharp crew cut and the other with his inseparable aviators ambled along the platform to get the needful. It was indeed a pity that the aviator drew stares only from Punju matrons and the devout bound for Amritsar. The other guy fluttered many a kudi's heart, and in general felt was completely responsible for a lot of commotion and increased decibel levels in the station. It was later discovered that the fluttering, the commotion and everything else that followed was attributed to some crazed Punjabi superstar bhang-ra(p) singer. The train rolled its way up; we shuffled in along with elbowing daily commuters clutching their office bags and faces stuck to mobile phones; the same matrons with their flow of overburdened bags, suitcases; the devout with their pious footfalls and the aged. We settled down to a piping hot breakfast and more rocket fuel courtesy the IRCTC (Indian Railways Catering and Tourism Corporation or some such expansion) as the train hurtled around the lush green countryside.

We reached Jalandhar at about two past noon. Soon we found ourselves bundled into a cab and rocketing at speeds which a Tata Indica might achieve towards the famed Rang la Punjab (Colours of Punjab), a theme based restaurant serving exquisite vegetarian Punjabi fare. We nonchalantly placed ourselves at the allotted table and waited to be served for we were famished to say the least. The wait was not for long as the army of oversized waiters efficiently piled the thick brass plates with the day's fare. They looked benignly on the three under nourished hungry waifs and it was their heartfelt dream and ambition that they would inflate the three of us to their size; for they knew deep in their hearts that on stepping out we would be back to the insipid world of phulkas, idli-vadas, pijjas and many other un-mentionables. Seizing their only chance and led by this unshakeable belief they served with more vigour and generosity. The dal makhni was delightful and delicious, the salads and chutneys fresh and tender, the monstrous brass tumbler always full with freshly churned lassi as the rotis, parathas and kulchas dripping with butter rained incessantly, confusing the three souls already stupefied by the quantity of food served and consumed. After what seemed a meal-hill of a mountain, we were served with absolutely delectable melt-in-the-mouth kheer which could not be savoured to its true worth. Taking pity on me, the oversized waiter served another oversized helping of kheer, cocksure this would be the one that would inflate me to their size. It didn't and I was lucky to get away unnoticed. We looked around the neat and well maintained place, managed to buy no souvenir and eventually came out of the place unsteadily in induced stupor resembling stuffed kukkads ready for the evening's shahi tandoor [2] [3].

We reached the other side of town to the Nandas' home where we rested our weary selves. At tea time, Nanda's mom and sis Samiksha served us another feast of cakes, samosas and other knick knacks that filled up the table with some amazing tea. Considering the gargantuan lunch, we managed to nibble something with Akshay taking more than just the lead and tea. We departed for Hoshiarpur where SK–the groom, slack as usual was not even in wedding finery; whereas we were dressed to kill anyone within a ten mile radius. The baraat left for Gurdaspur waylaid by the photographer every ten steps, who was hell bent on exposing the reams of film on SK within the hour, hoping to track every possible angle of the groom. The wedding formalities were in full swing accompanied by a delayed dinner for which we were extremely thankful. The ceremonies started late in the night and went on for what seemed hours. I promptly fell asleep not at all indebted to my jhootis [4] , camera in hand not to be woken by my partners in crime who sat through the ceremonies at their respective places; the bride and groom next to the pundit cozy by the fire; T&J beside me. I awoke to the smell of freshly brewed tea wafting through the air and in time to see the newly married couple taking their seventh and most important of the pheras [5]. We left for Amritsar soon after @ about four in the morning with the two of them sleeping the journey out and me, awake.

We crashed into our beds at the dormitory by the Golden Temple premises. I woke up close to eight just in time to get a call from SK, who sounded tired, sleepless and was just about to start his way back home. Thank God for South Indian weddings, at least they don’t torture the newlyweds the whole night!! After what seemed an eternity, Lord Akshay chose to open his eyes and grace the day with his presence. The bells at the golden temple rang, the bells at the nearby temples also rang; the muezzin at the mosque called; the church choir sang; the birds chirped happily, they couldn’t ring or sing; the cows mooed, they too couldn’t sing, for their bells rang to announce this momentous occasion. We left sometime later to the Golden Temple. Aptly named; mystic, deeply religious; serenely beautiful yet tranquil; not all temples or shrines can create such an impression. The kada prashad [6], was divinity itself. We walked across to the Jallianwala Bagh [7] where the garden and the memorial still bore testimony to the bullet marks on the walls and the well to the muted screams of the many who jumped in to escape the gun fire. The decrepit red brick wall near the narrow entrance with precariously mounted letters announcing the place bore evidence of sixty two years of apathy and indifference.

We came out hungry in time for our brunch and one of Amritsar's favourite pursuits; feed the people. We found the Seven Brothers Dhaba without much delay or help. It's hard to miss a famed eatery across the street, especially if in Amritsar or Punjab or anywhere in India for that matter. Their speciality: Amritsari Kulchas [8] and Lassi. They arrived piping hot as usual and dripping with more butter (not usual at all) than could be imagined or written about. Three brazenly monstrous brass vessels rising six inches above the serving tray, covering the bottom portion of the bust of the waiter holding at the least a half litre of something arrived. That something turned out to be freshly churned frothy thick Lassi of choice. Mind you, this was breakfast as the menu proclaimed, as the staffer asserted proudly; and here I had been cursing the Gujjus for their insane combination of Fafdas, Ganthias and Jalebis [9] for breakfast. We feasted on the parathas, proposed a lassi toast to the city, the people in general and managed to wobble out even though someone amongst us left more than half a kulcha. We left sometime later for the Atari – Wagah border.

Attari is famous as the border town where the flag hoisting and lowering ceremonies assume unheard and unseen of proportions. The Lonely Planet sums up this town in four precise lines which I don’t remember. In all probability, it is the only operational business road route between the two neighbours. We reached and managed to get some seats that were in close proximity to the gates. The arena thronged with people from all corners of the country eager to see their soldiers in action. The Border Security Force (am quite sure the Rangers across the gates also) played to the gallery and revved them up to a frenzy of fleeting nationalism. Bollywood songs stirring the fervor upped the ante and ignited the arena. A huge section of the crowd; its fire within roused by the high decibel music; danced in the hot sun kicking up dust, angst, slogans and choice catch phrases against the unknown faces across the other side (despite the MC's prior requests). The crowd was held in check and sent back to their seats before the guard of honour marched in. The songs stopped blaring but not the frenzy of the crowd. Chants, slogans and ear piercing screams still rented the air. The only person to beat the crowd at their game was the guard commander and his long drawn out commands. To the untrained eye, the limbered-up soldiers gigantic in stature moved crisply, precisely to the sounds of the commands and the bugler. To the trained, it seemed like outrageous or even outright comical marching; its foundations built solidly on ambient testosterone levels and the whipped up frenzy, feeding it at the same time for an event fitting grand finale as the soldiers faced off each other with grim postures and grimmer stares at the gates. The flags of both the nations were lowered synchronized. As the Indian flag came down, so did whatever it represented. The crowd roared orgasmically in approval as the gates clanged shut for the day. We left carefully not to tread on the strewn plastic tri-colours.

We reached Amritsar with a resolve that there would be no more Punjabi for dinner. A resolve which led us to have a stab at Chinese cuisine in the heart of Punjab. A quixotic resolve which bore fruit in the form of Schezwan noodles, a welcome change indeed. The next day saw us roam Amritsar with Shveta's parents and reach the steps of the Seven Brothers for another brunch. That night we boarded the train out of Punjab with butter in our bloods, lassi in our guts and what can be best described as elation coupled with mixed feelings.

Glossary

[1] Akshay and Shveta - A great couple who are thick friends of mine. Till date I haven’t been able to ascertain as to which of them corresponds to their nickname (am quite sure they can't either). I once tried to do so, that happened to be the last time, but tell u what one couldn’t have asked for better friends.

[2] Kukkads and Shahi Tandoor – The state bird of Punjab and the unofficial national bird – the chicken; feted in ovens, dining tables; feted by chefs with qualifications; celebrated by roadside dhaba owners across the country. The tandoor happens to be an earthen pit converted into an oven over which the above said kukkads, paneer, rotis, naans can be cooked to perfection or burnt to cinders depending on the cook's whims and capabilities. The shahi refers to a particular dish where the chicken is stuffed with choice cashews, pistachios, almonds, onions and other condiments unknown to all but the cook and the chicken itself.

[3] Para 3 – If you can't understand the elaborate description of the Punjabi thaali, there are only two ways out. Reach for the nearest dhaba that serves a proper thaali or the nearest luxury restaurant that has a Punjabi Banquet. Easy way out: get yourself to Jalandhar and ask for the Rang la Punjab.

[4] Jhootis – Flat soled embroidered hard soled cushion less footwear designed to kill the feet, maim the ankles, send shock waves to the knees and engineered to give a feeling of walking on a crown of thorns, but preferred by many an Indian for reasons exactly contrary to the above.

[5] Pheras – A circumventing of a pan of log/twig fire aided by ghee (or such fuel that can fuel the fire) which spews out acrid smoke by the bleary, teary eyed bride and groom. This happens seven times over, just so that the relatives are septet-ly sure that the couple got it right the first time.

[6] Kada Prashad- A mildly flavoured simple mixture of broken wheat, gur (jaggery) and ghee served as prashad @ the Golden Temple. Though dripping with ghee for which I seem to have created an aversion; it tasted heavenly.

[7] Jallianwala Bagh - A public garden converted to a monument revered by all and remembered for a massacre on 13 April 1919 wherein unarmed people who had gathered to celebrate Baisakhi (a harvest festival) were killed by the hundreds and injured by the thousands by the British Indian Army picket commanded by Col Reginald Dyer (later Brig.) under the pretext of a possible mutiny. This atrocity triggered off many a fervent struggle against the Brits including the assassination of the then governor of Punjab, Lt Governor Michael O Dwyer in London.

[8] Amritsari Kulcha – A kulcha is a roti that consists of a lot of concentric layers of atta (wheat). The Amritsari is unique coz a fat layer of maida (refined flour) encases the concentric layers of wheat which in turn enclose a stuffing of assorted veggies. This combination is baked in the tandoor at temperatures as determined by the availability of wood and its freshness. The cooked bread is then dunked into a pot of butter, doused with more butter and served with even more butter.

[9] Fafdas, Ganthias and Jalebis – Fafda (plural-fafdae) are flat 2 inch wide pieces of besan (chick pea flour aka channe ke atta) deep fried in oil of unknown origin and served (early in the morning as breakfast or as a snack at any other point of time in the day) with fried green chillies which are actually tasteless. Ganthia is the same thing in cylindrical or star shaped or amoebic form. Expected to be consumed by the kilo and not by numbers. Jalebis are again sweetened flour in the form of fractal shapes with irregular criss crossing loops which are deep fried to a crisp in ghee, dunked in thick flavoured sugar syrup and served. The North Indian variant is to serve the same with richly flavoured and sweetened condensed milk (rabri). Recommended by their makers as the healthiest breakfast in the whole wide India. Unfortunately they haven’t established contact with the Dhaba owners and Kulcha makers.

Fur Elise

The Fur Elise by Ludwig Von Beethoven is one of the most recognised tunes all over. Some recognise it for the simplicity in its composition for the harp or the piano; but by most of us as the tune that is played almost everytime a car reverses in a monophonic or stereophonic metallic tone that emanates from the insides of the car, capable of splitting the eardrums when listened to from close quarters. Wonder how much torque would be produced by Beethoven as he is spinning in his grave even now. Or maybe that is implausible considering he is stone deaf and is atleast six feet down the edge and thinking (....mebbe six feet aint so far down :P) or Du hast....du hast misch :P:P

Random musings

This is an attempt to revive the flagging career of my blog that has plummeted to such depths that can be imagined by a diver trying to reach the light at the end of the mariana's trench. here on, there will be a lot of entries that will not pertain to any topic in particular, just random thoughts.

Jamnagar may be a one horse town, but there are enough camels that carry the other horses burden; not to forget the cows and bulls that play or just sit idly in the middle of the road blocking traffic and testing the driver's skills.

HOLY ASHTRAY AND HOLY MUCK

We had been to one of our trips to the Holy City of Jerusalem, when the guide guided us to one of the many souvenir shops whose shop-keeper obviously was in cahoots with this guide. He even offered a mighty six percent discount on the loot. No wonder we seemed to be the only customers. There were small bottles of 'Holy Water', presumably from the Jordan, Olive oil that was being passed off as 'Anointing Oil','The Via Dolorosa' (with its fourteen stations) wall hangings in all shapes and sizes, an array full of crosses, key chains of crosses, magnets of crosses, pendants of crosses, basically lots and lots of crosses. I just ambled around in the shop, picking up over priced curious curios and souvenirs to while away time with no intention of purchasing, when I chanced upon a ashtray in the typical blue and white ceramic style of the Turks and the Israelis. It just wasn't any ashtray that you could pick off the streets, there was something uniquely holy about it. A nice mosaic of the Dome of the Rock, the Western wall lay there in its centre. I looked at other versions with the Coenaculum, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and many other religious edifices dominating the others. It came as quite a surprise to me that there was also small sachets of mud that proclaimed- “Mud from the Holy Land” placed neatly nearby. Call it Jewish ingenuity to make money but to be frank it seemed more like holy muck and it left me with a great doubt, would the smoke from the cigarette placed in the tray be dutifully christened as 'Holy Smoke'?

THE BAPTISM OF SACHIN SHARMA

We, implying the duo of Sachin and me, who had been wandering around the countryside in search for damsels in distress in dire need of Knights, their shining armours, steeds and fat bags of gold, came back to our lodgings after yet another futile hunt. This time around we had been hunting in the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan river, which it so happens is very holy for the followers of Jesus Christ (Superstar). The rationale being that this was the very same river where Jesus was baptised by the Baptist- St John, when he was quite young. Now, back in those days, when Myrrh and Frankincense stocks ruled the markets and were worth their weight in gold, they didn't know how to manufacture Sodium Lauryl Sulphate; Dove and Lux weren't even anywhere near their infancy, the Jordan was considered the Holiest of rivers by the Christian world (for the rest, it was Ganga). A dip would cleanse many a sin and crime, (for a detailed report, please contact the nearest Christian theologist or call up the toll free number of your local TV Evangelist) and so the Jordan has been polluted over the millenia and reduced to a trickle mainly due to the very efficient usage of its water by the Israelis and the general lack of rainfall in the middle-east. Not withstanding, the baptism ritual continues to this day with special, flimsy white robes reminding one of long lost cult, marketed as 'Baptism Robes' and bottled water of the Jordan available in the counters for a few dollars (or more).

We didn't bother with the robes and did our best to baptise ourselves by just wetting our heads. I wasn't satisfied with this ritual and went a step ahead to fill up an empty water bottle with the catfish and rodent (who incidentally traced their ancestry to the fish and rats that witnessed the Baptism of Jesus and who proudly narrated this divine sight to their spawn) infested waters of the Jordan. The “holy bottle” was left very conveniently in Sachin's bag to be retrieved at the Hotel when the tour ended; with adequate warnings and advice that it was not to be consumed. The bottle or its existence came to my mind maybe a whole day after the tour, and so I went to inquire about its health. My fears came true when Sachin recounted that he had been quite thirsty the night before and had promptly drank this liquid (much like Alice in her wonderland). Fortunately, for him, his digestive track (and mine too) had seen the likes of many a UFO and toxic substances that faintly resembled food and had grown immune to them, so nothing happened and no casualty was reported. Poor Lewis Carrol, his ghost and its great expectations.

SOMETHING ABOUT A FORK AND KNIFE

I was formally introduced to the concept of a fork and knife a very long time ago by two people – my brother and my uncle and was forced to eat dosas and idlis with them by a hard- headed sorry bald headed headmaster who used to wear a blazer in the blazing heat of South India. That, he was previously at the St. Joseph's, Coonoor probably explained a lot. The sudden transition from unruly boys breaking open lunch boxes, especially that of others to pseudo gentlemen trying to wield a fork was quite hard. This experience came quite handy some years later when I had to hunt a pomegranate and dissect a mango using blunt knives. But that is a different story. Staying here, I've realised that the knife could also be held in the left hand and some veggies could still be cut, with enough experience and time at the dinner table. Better still, that rice need not be had in the wrong side of the fork in true Brit style with more than 40 percent accounting for casualties but could also be wielded with as much ease in the right.

SERVED CHILLED

It had been quite a chill night by Tel Aviv standards. My idle brain was over working itself at the breakfast table and decided to go for a swim along with the body that was housing it temporarily, after the sun god had finished his cup of tea with two lumps of sugar, some cakes and biscuits to go with it. I dived in the water and inspected the tiles of the pool quite closely. They were a good shade of blue. Light, like the skies. It was then that I decided to go for some air. I didn't realise how cold the night had been till I or more specifically my head, that particular part of the body that fortunately my brain seemed to inhabit came out for air. To say that I was chilled to the bone was quite an understatement. In fact it took me to the days when we had to swim in the cold cold pool of Lonavla ( I was quite lucky to have done that only once or twice....and that too for the sake of fun) when one could be served chilled after the first gasp of air. I managed to get my air and hit for the end of the pool as fast as I could. When I reached the end of the pool there were two lifeguards by the poolside who where angry at something, pissed off to be very accurate. Sachin who was already in the pool and was frosted came by my side to inform me that my dive had them soaked to the bone too. Whatever happened to their sense of humour......guess that too must have got soaked.

PEDESTRIANS, SIDEWALKS AND FITNESS FREAKS

We had the habit of running in the beach or near about it in the evenings and when we had time at hand after dinner (when not busy in some movie or TV) we ambled around the city to enjoy the sights and sounds. By the end of a month we had become expert pedestrians, following rules of the road, looking right and left before we crossed. We were standing in the sidewalk, waiting for the traffic to ebb so that we could walk across. We had scarcely waited for not more than a couple of minutes, when the car that was about to pass us stopped. It was a beat-up Citroen with good brakes. The vehicles behind also stopped automatically. The driver of the Citroen signaled us to pass. I, for one was at a loss of words at this royal treatment. This initial shock soon wore off as the same happened at every crossroad. The pedestrians were the Lords of the roads!!!. There were a lot of other pedestrians apart from us. Many of them were very fit, some of them not as good. The many pedestrians who were fit were dressed in singlets and shorts in peak Mediterranean winter, braving cold winds at ten or eleven in the night to go about their jog or run their marathon. It was a strange sight seeing them run at this unearthly hour when most of the people I know back home are either in front of the TV or the PC or having dinner peacefully. It really must require a lot of effort and dedication to sweat it out in the roads just before midnight. Pheidipides would have been very proud, indeed.

SAB KUCH MILEGA

We had spent almost a month in Tel Aviv, eating, sleeping and savouring five star food. Time, which was supposed to play the healer, chose to reverse its role and reminded our near dead taste buds about spicy Indian food, Sachin too was a great contributor to the effect, reminiscing about his Mom’s parathas and the great eat-outs and joints of Delhi. Succumbing to both time and Sachin, we set out on a nice Friday morning to Dizengoff Center, to roam about in general, window shop and finally when our legs were tired of walking, and our eyes of window shopping, we went in the general direction of the restaurant that we had tracked down. The place was located somewhere near about Rehov Herzl. Armed with a map and a razor sharp navigating brain and the rudimentary location, we reached the Rehov Herzl to discover that the road was almost a mile or two long and we cursed ourselves for not being able to get the address or the name of the Restaurant. We walked towards the beginning of the street in an effort to leave no stone unturned or untouched in the pavement. Sapped of energy, hungry from walking and thirsty from cursing and excess salivating we approached a café in Sderot Rothschild to quench our thirst.

I have to say, the Israelis are a great bunch of people. They are fitness fanatics, great revelers and party goers, love their food and drink. Say you are an Indian and a display of true warmth and friendliness comes forth. We were just pondering the fate of our grumbling tummies when the guy across the kiosk counter (who had given us excellent coffee by the way) pin-pointed the location of the restaurant right to its doorstep sending flutters across the GPS world which managed by great effort to keep its satellites in orbit. We paid him his bill, due respects and the promise of a photograph which would be e-mailed and went towards our final destination.

The directions were given correctly, no doubt about that, but we still couldn’t find the place. So we stood in front of the only red painted door in the whole of Rehov Ha’mashbir that lay south of Dereh Yaffo and one street west of Rehov Herzl, facing the end of the street and arguing about the easier wrong turn taken instead of the harder right turn (No apologies Mr. Kipling, No apologies), much to the chagrin and curiosity of a passerby. He was lucky that his curiosity didn’t do him or his cat any or much harm other than a-don’t-mess-with-us look from the both of us. That was when a small white paper stuck to the door with something written in English and Hindi caught my eye. We were standing right in front of the door and yelling till Kingdom come. Lucky it was made of glass!! We went inside and sought out the menu. The thaali/ buffet which was spread before us was very inviting, so we literally dived into it. The food was quite appetizing and it didn’t matter much to Sachin that it was only vegetarian. There was excellent dal, rice, green coloured rice and fried jeera rice, channa masala, lobia and two very tasty subjis with some of the best curd and raita.

We sat there purring like two satisfied cats and resolved not to have breakfast or coffee on the way the next time, ready to make another walk back to the Hotel.

My tryst with Air India

My tryst with Air India did not begin at the stroke of the midnight hour or on the 15th of August 1947. I wasn’t even born then, neither was Air India nor did they have their office at CP (Connaught Place to the uninitiated). It began on a chill February morning in 2008 in Delhi, when the New in its name had grown quite old, as its many offices gathered many files, folders, broken typewriters, cobwebs, pigeon nests, pigeon poop, senile politicians and bureaucrats stuck to their chairs and corridors of power till death do them apart.

The morning chill cut through the driver of the bike and my jersey to rattle up the nerves and memories of hot insipid chaai. The road to CP had its usual twists and turns along with its traffic lights and confounding roundabouts that were the trademark of Mr. Edward Lutyens. I have always hated roundabouts, regardless of whether you went around them or them around you, and these ones weren’t any exceptional. It was almost a week before I could find my way to my work without any help from car drivers, pedestrians, beggars, school children or the usual hang-abouts. I had some urgent matters to tend to that particular day at the Air India Office which was barely a couple of kilometers away.

So, we bravely set forth in the general direction of more roundabouts. We asked a couple of passers-by for more directions and soon found ourselves shuttling for almost an hour between the Air Force HQ and the Akashvani Building which lay further ahead, with regular sightings of the GPO and some other insignificant buildings and shops that are found everywhere. Sick of wasting petrol, time at traffic lights and doing some extensive legwork to change gears we decided to pounce upon another unsuspecting passerby for directions. This one was a bit different from the rest and gave us directions for the Parliament House!!! A fat lot of help, these pedestrians in Delhi. The blighters must have been in Delhi the whole of their lives and not one bugger knew the exact direction to the Air India Bldg.

A kind policeman who was busy reprimanding drivers finally bailed us out with another set of directions. Faithfully following them led us to the Airlines House. We barged into their reception to book our International tickets where we were kindly informed in a Mallu accent that the Indian Airlines never have had any international flights since their inception and that the pending merger between the two state owned enterprises would not change things either. After a brief sermon in chaste Mall-inglish, the lady gave the directions to CP and to look out for a multi-storied Jeevan Bharti building full of glass. We reached the corner of CP, parked our bike to seek out the ‘building full of glass’. It really was a sight, when we realized that we had indeed parked in the exact place and the bldg was actually full of glass, from the other side that is.
It had taken us almost a shade under two hours to cover a measly distance of two, maybe four kilometers!!! I really wished things would improve for the better the next time around.

Some really wise guy with great imagination once said if wishes were horses, then pigs could fly. My wish really came true the next time around we reached the Air India Office in no time. (One of the main reasons was that I was doing the driving this time!!! {With a great show of driving skills and especially wheely-ing with a scared pillion rider in one of the roundabouts at peak Delhi traffic. Beat that if you can, Paul [1]}). We sat there waiting for the grand old lady at the counter to apparate after her lunch and siesta. Since she was no Hermione Granger, we had to wake her up at re-opening time so that we could start our legal and financial transactions. As I sat there booking my tickets, a really sizeable Punju lady ambled across to show her brand new dupatta/stole which she bought when she sneaked out during her lunch break. (Considering her size, I doubt if she could sneak through the India gate, and unnoticed at that). There was considerable interest shown over this brand new piece of apparel by both the ladies about the quality of Fab India (a garment manufacturer) material. A grand debate (which would have put to shame the producers, stage actors of the Big Fight series in NDTV and the Arattai Arangam of Visu [2]) ensued about the colour of the stole, which was a copper sulphate blue, the rapidity at which it would fade away followed by another lengthy discussion about the water situation in Delhi and how it was or wasn’t suitable for washing. I heaved a sigh of relief when there was a slight pause, hoping that I would get my tickets now. But it was not to be as another lengthy discussion on the branches of Fab-India, their best one and the worst one ensued. I sat there transfixed, defenseless against this barrage of gossip-jamming.

I hoped against hope and the grand dame’s paan chewing and spewing, (The thought actually sent me into launching a paan coloured lip-stick with one of the cosmetic giants. Pity it would never seen the lips of any sane lady. I even had my model sitting in front of me) that I would finally get my tickets. Some of the printed tickets lay inert in the printer tray when there appeared this shady looking agent with a small hand-bag tucked under his arm. (He too had paan stains on his teeth. I deduced immediately that the two of them were chums or siblings who had identified themselves after twenty years in the wilderness thanks to their paan stains. I also figured that some very zany re-mix of Yaadon ki Baarat would be playing the background incessantly.) He was into cahoots with the fat lady, whose stole had been the cause of this merciless torture, getting his many tickets, chewing paan and making some small talk when he mentioned something about a pink or red rose plant at his home. The grand dame swung into action again, leaving me and my tickets in the lurch as she launched into one of her oratories about her dogs, how the two of them always urinated on her rose bushes, how the two of them never understood this one sensitively smelly issue, how her repeated warnings and reprimands always led them tragically relieving themselves on her favourite plants over and over again till she had come to terms with her fate and the strange smell of her roses.

God Almighty! This was getting a bit out of hand. So I did what best I could under these very trying times. I gave the lady my very-very best terror-look. This was the very kind of stare that would have melted the likes of the Australian cricket team into submission and some American football teams running back to their mothers. I wasn’t sure whether it was my look or the departure of the paaneri [3]-agent that got me my tickets over the next half hour or thereabouts. I was a very relieved man when I moved myself from that seat, only to stare into the eyes of my friend who had to book his tickets. It took us more than two hours to book our tickets, when we left the building I thought I heard the fat lady singing ………Yaadon ki Baarat.

NOTES

[1] Beat that if you can, Paul. A good friend of mine who is really crazy about bikes, cars and generally eats anything that moves as long as it doesn’t bite him back. He is also a good guitarist with an Enfield Thunderbird without a back rest that aids him in wheel-ying off his pillion riders from time to time. It must be added that when he rides around, the street is conspicuously empty of other riders, pedestrians; even the dogs and cats beat it when they can feel his bike around.

[2] Big Fight and Arattai Arangam of Visu. A Sunday pastime for many Tamils in Tambi Land is to watch this Arattai Arangam- a debate which features a lot of the needs, wants and the thoughts of the common man and woman. One is often left to wonder how such intelligent debaters and orators often are governed by the political parties that prey on religious and caste differences.

[3] Paaneri. A Paaneri is one who chews paan incessantly and makes a meal out of it. He/She is characterized by very dirty and discoloured teeth which the R&D Depts of both Pepsodent and Colgate have given up and reached an agreement not to advertise or research about in the future. Paan consists of Betel leaves, Betel nuts, some calcium carbonate paste and a lot of other condiments that depend on the persons taste and colour of the spit that dots the road, the potted plants, public toilets or the very rarely sighted spittoon.

A DROP OF SALAD TOPPING

I think it was one of the first of the many dinners we had in the Hotel, my plate was filled with a lot of veggies as it usually is, and some green olives. I had in my glass a strange looking juice (that looked like a sinister mango shake that had just escaped from prison) which I had picked up from the Salad and Veggies counter. Sachin too asked me for a recommendation….and promptly went away to get the same. I looked about like a monarch surveying his subjects that he governed, only my subjects were in the plate and then chose the opportune moment to take a sip from the glass. It was then that I realized that it wasn’t a mango shake at all in the first place, let alone be sinister. It was salad dressing. Sachin came back and took a sip from it and his face said it all…..there was no better expression or reaction that said it better. So I had to face the brunt of both our angers and the great after taste it left in our mouths that took a very long time to forget or subside. Till date I haven’t been able to find out about the origins of that evil tasting salad dressing.

WEATHER REPORT

The weather or climate of Tel Aviv in March/April is worth more than a mention. When we first reached here, we were told that the winter was still trying its best to ruin the banana plantations, make people stick to their homes, drink some rum thing or two and generally stick to the indoors. The Israelis are a tough lot and some chill Northern wind from across the sea doesn’t bother them in running in the beach early morning or late evenings in only singlets and the shortest of shorts. The weather also does its bit in scaring the daylights out of the forecasters and the meteorologists, making them burn their electricity bills. Take for instance a sample of the weather for a week:
Day 1 - windy, cloudy, chill- probably winter on one of his days at work.
Day 2 - windy but warm during the mornings…..quite hot in the afternoon – onset of summer, maybe?
Day 3 – foggy, very chill wind from the Mediterranean in the evening and rain in the night- just a transition during the usual corporate takeover by summer???
Day 4 – hot in the morning and very hot in the evening, no wind, no rain- surely the start of summer
Day 5 – chill wind makes a telling comeback on people without jackets sitting in the beaches, causing café owners and beach shack owners pull down their shutters and bum around idly like tourists- whatever happened to the corporate takeover?
Day 6 – extremely hot by the standard standards of winter…but fit enough to be labeled summer- maybe the deal has been inked and the takeover a success?
Day 7 – windy in the morning, hot in the day, foggy in the evening and chill in the night- talk about horse trading and Indian politicians switching parties, surely they must have taken the cue from Mother Nature.
So I honestly stick to speaking the truth whenever anyone asks me about the weather…….I give them the same set of readings that has sent the meteorologists in a tizzy- am quite sure they too are in a tailspin by now.

AN ANGRY DOG’S TA(I)L(E)

The sun was a brilliant shade of crimson that evening, as it usually is every evening, there was nothing unusual or alien about the color or appearance of the sun. It was comparatively warm to the previous day but relatively cold to the day before that. I was running in the beach as usual, yapping with Sachin about worldly things that come to mind when you are running on a beach. The waves were breaching the beach to a great extent and we were not in the mood to get our sneakers wet, so we experts kept running expertly, avoiding the waves when we passed a couple quite close. All of a sudden a yap, a bark, followed by a series of barks tore through the air. It belonged to a small dog, a very angry small dog of unknown pedigree that had neatly been side-stepped by me. What followed was a little bit of confusion between the dog, its master and me. Fortunately the master saved the dog from a certain defeat in the cross-country championship that would have ensued. The guy was quite sure that the dog was of no match for a champ like me and so things returned to normal, the sun kept sinking down, the waves kept lapping the beach and we kept running on. I wondered what else would have happened if the dog had chosen to compete……

FIRE! FIRE!! FIRE!!!

I was pretty much bored to death after a TV overdose. The door leading to the balcony was left open in true tropic style to let the fresh air in and also in an effort to get out of the air conditioned space without having to move much. Anyways, there I was, the fastest draw in surfing channels practicing hard for the world championships when the telephone rang. I was informed by the very efficient people guarding the reception that I would have to stop smoking as it was a non-smoking room. I was also quite surprised to discover that I had become a smoker in a matter of seconds. I replied to their obvious discomfort that I wasn’t one and had no intentions of transforming into one either. After due apologies, the reply from the other end caught me off-guard. I was told to shut the balcony door. Even before my mind could wander off to fetch the thinking cap and the pipe in true Holmes style, pat came the reason, the fire alarm had rang and quite honestly the person in the other end seemed very interested to put an end to the ear-splitting heavy metal concert and hence all the attention.

ISTANBUL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT- 07 MAR 08, 0845 HRS,TST

The journey was quite a comfortable one as I had passed beyond the point of getting any sleep or even borrow it. I was thankful to Steve Jobs and his engineers for creating a battery that could fit into the i-pod and serve for more than 8 hrs at a stretch. Frankly I was caught off-guard when the hostess came up to me with a charming smile and told me to switch off the pod as it would interfere with the navigation equipment fitted onboard. I later realized that the in-flight movie was also stressing the same point over and over till it gate-crashed into the passengers. It is still a mystery (worthy of Agatha Christie) as to how my i-pod could interfere with their Nav Equipment.

After an uneventful flight, we taxied to a perfect stop at the Istanbul International Airport. It seemed alien and Hospital-like when compared to Delhi. After a lot of walking around, amidst much hand waving, gesturing and encounters with lots of travel agents (resembling their counterparts in the FBI) desperately trying to make a lot of dollars out of us smart-lot, we discovered the sleep shattering truth that there wasn’t any AI office around to confirm our hotel booking. After more hand waving, gesturing and more unlucky travel agents who left with their heads shaking in despair, sorrow and bewilderment we conned one agent into making a call to the Hotel, confirmed our booking and left with ourselves in the tube that ran below much to the chagrin of the agents who were on the verge of committing suicide but were prevented in the nick of time by the next set of unassuming tourists who walked right into their trap.

Istanbul still had a lot of time left for its annual de-frosting….and so we set foot into the strange land clad in whatever we thought prudent for a Mediterranean summer. The chill air ripped through the shreds of clothing making us scramble to the Hotel as fast as our legs could carry. We did make fast progress with the essential digression towards a very cheap sale of jackets and blazers, the odd bakery that served fresh croissants, éclairs, photographs in the streets as part of evidence and a quick comparison of prices of all and sundry before finally reaching the Hotel President in Beyazit (a neighbourhood close to the University) for a quick change and breakfast.

I was quite sleepy but was goaded on by Sachin to take the trip around the city and was still clad in the same blue paper thin tee. So we set off in the general direction that Sachin, our able navigator had charted. We ended up seeing the grand Sultan Ahmed Mosque, the Hagia Sofia Museum, ate some strange looking bagel with a lot of sesame seeds, the Kapisi or the Grand Market, where another set of comparisons, conversions and the usual proof that everything in India was cheap, cheaper was derived with astonishing accuracy, precision and speed, making some watch makers in Switzerland to close their shops for the day and incur no losses. The bagel had been devoured as the Swiss shops were closing down. The Turkish Wind God, who happens to be a blood relative of our own Vayu took cognizance of the facts (that we were dressed for the summer with a few exceptions, the express mathematical proof and that nobody else had any intentions of purchasing jackets regardless of the winter super- duper sale, thereby not paying him our respects and his dues) and decided to test the four wanderers as if his family name had been tainted by blowing steadily and often enticing them into the trap. The two brave travelers and another very brave one withstood the onslaught and soon the wind god flew away with the wind in his sails, to drown his sorrow over Beer and free salted nuts. (He was later found sloshed in the bar the next morning. His psychiatrist had to be admitted later that day in NIMHANS, Bangalore on special recommendation)

We left for the airport by the tube/metro and reached in double quick time. The painful experience of NDL Intl Airport was still not moved to the recycle bin and so, security checks and other formalities were done, well, expeditiously. The crafty plane from Istanbul for Tel Aviv taxied off somewhere about midnight or thereabouts. I was still lagging behind on a good night’s sleep and just managed to reach the seat and park myself. The day had been busy what with warding off FBI agent like travel agents, disposing off the wind-god, window shopping, sight-seeing, eating bagels, hazelnuts in-between lunch and dinner and walking aimlessly on the cobbled pavements till our feet or the pavements could take no more. I promptly fell asleep and was woken up a couple of hours (to be precise two hours, two minutes and two seconds later) to dismount and grace the Ben Gurion Airport security check. The formalities were completed by a very beautiful woman and I gathered around our luggage which was last sighted in Delhi. Hugging them with tears would have been a bit too much of an Oscar winning scene as they were still in near perfect condition when all others nearby resembled victims of a WWF championship match. So they were just huddled in a remote corner of the airport like Mexican refugees, as we waited for the rest of the group to assemble. The Israelis take every precaution to keep themselves safe from their neighbours, this included special checks and verification for Moslems and their purpose in Israel. It took almost an hour more to establish the fact that they weren’t upto any harm before they crossed over.

I was woken up again after the airport when we reached the Hotel, to dismount my luggage. We checked-in at three thirty and I promptly fell asleep in the lounge much to the chagrin of the security personnel as we waited for the rooms to be cleaned up and made ready for the likes of us. I woke up sometime at about ten or so when Sachin told me about my slumber and the near earthquake that was registered in the morning because of my snoring to go back to the room, dump my luggage, try and get some breakfast. Sachin’s mother came to our rescue as the dining hall had closed and her poori and alu sabji saved the day for all of us. I promptly fell asleep again after that to wake up for dinner.

We had finally arrived.

NEW DELHI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT- 06 MAR 08, 2300 HRS IST

The flight from the New Delhi International Airport was at the early hour of 0445 hrs. The recent spate of construction in the airport had sent the passengers into a great tizzy with a lot of them missing their trolleys of baggage, loved and unloved ones, big whole airplanes which can’t be missed so easily in the blink of an eye or for that matter not just being able to reach the construction site or the airport in time due to traffic. (Hereon, christened as the ELITE GROUP). The modernization programme had also sent the Airport Authorities into a greater tizzy with many of them temporarily shifting homes to the airport and the rest choosing to stay away weeks on end due to traffic and the fear that they might be trampled by the irate passengers. Not wanting to join the elite group, we reached the airport at about an hour or so before midnight. The wait was long……us waiting for the plane like a hungry lion who had been on Mr. Atkins’ hit-list for more than a month. The pride of ten lions who waited dwindled down to two, one armed with an i-pod and the other sporting aviators in the dead of the night. The rest had drifted off sitting atop their luggage trolleys. The two were discussing matters of great importance which covered world peace, cigarettes, Iraq, whisky, the climate in Israel, vodka, beer, Led Zeppelin, Joe Satriani and in- flight food, leg-room, beings and the probability of an ET invasion in the airport that night.

Two hours before the H- hour the two and some more realized that some formalities were still pending, which posed a great possibility of being permanent members of the elite group without any recommendation or backing from an existing member of it’s security council. The hunter’s intuition took over admirably as we ran from gate 4 to gate 1 stealthily and in record time without the aid of GPS to reach the check-in counter without any casualties or serious injuries to self or precious baggage. The counter had already been sighted by a reconnoitering party working on information from Int. sources.

A word on international travel booking is deemed essential at this critical juncture. The flight was of Turkish Air as the Air Indians (AI’s- not to be confused with Artificial Intelligence) didn’t operate a direct, indirect or any flights to the city of Tel Aviv. The Turks did, with their magic flying carpets along with a twelve to fifteen hour stopover at Istanbul. So the AI’s booked us with the Turks and AI 6071 and offered a nice big Hotel at Istanbul for the duration of the stopover. Now that the ground realities have been established, let’s get ahead.

The fundamental truth that the AI’s were just the booking agency was discovered when the recce party swung into action and a major goof-up in the mission avoided. Lightning is never supposed to strike the same place twice, but it chose to electrocute this unsuspecting bunch as the Hotel reservations, PNR numbers and some more vital info was also gleaned from the super-secret AI computers which weren’t AI at the least. Then we waited in the line. It was the line that seemed to have stemmed right out of the Wing Commander Murphy’s (Retd) grave. There were a bunch of survivors, (the reality series people) moving their equipment ‘serially’ from one end of the counter to its other and thereby from one corner of the earth to its centre or thereabouts and paying a princely sum of Rupees One Lakh Only (A/C Payee) as excess baggage. I later on heard that theirs was the only fragile equipment that was handled with great finesse and delicate care. A lot of world weary wanderers who traveled about in groups of one or two swooshed past the adjacent counters as we just stood there posing very seriously in a 1970’s bollywood movie slo-mo video shot in bullet time videography. We moved through more lines that snaked through the airport making every inch of movement, a moment of celebration.

The final steps before we fastened our seat belts were momentously sleep deprived moments mixed with a lot of elation and more importantly relief as I plonked down in an effort to get some sleep.

What will happen next? Will the writer get any sleep? Will the weary travelers reach Istanbul? Or Tel Aviv for that matter...Please see and read the next article in the same font size and page settings in MS Word.

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Forever Young

I found this really nice poem in one of Bob Dylan's exhaustive list of songs and found an irresistible urge to enter it here. It may sound like a sermon but it really is worth a read for the capabilities of a songwriter.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
and let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
and climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
and see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
when the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

- Bob Dylan

A Journey to School

We had just shifted homes from the city to suburbia circa 1994, making the daily commute to the same school a very early morning affair. As a school kid, early mornings were mostly reserved to sprawling in the bed when not involved in cricket practice or waking up for diwali; so this came as a rude shock to a very blissful existence. Till then school buses were multi-hued of blue, brown, beige and green to be looked at from a distance with wonder at the infinite number of very heavy school bags protruding from every conceivable angle.

The first day was quite a revelation, having for the first time got into a bus for going to school at the unearthly hour of 0650 in the morning. A lot of sleepy faces and many more kept occupying the seats till the seats could hold no more. The not so sleepy faces that hopped into the bus much much later had to make do with whatever seats were available or to be quite correct whatever space was available for self and the bag. The bus took a huge detour nearly criss-crossing the school twice before finally making a grand entry, so kids who lived farthest like me had a distinct advantage of choosing the grandest seats. A big consolation, getting a choice seat when most others were barely awake.

Considering the odd hour, it was quite odd, extremely odd that a majority of us kids never slept on the way to school. Maybe it was the sheer adrenalin rush of looking at things whizz past or decibel levels that could put a Led Zeppelin concert to shame. Another interesting phenomenon that happened nearly always was –the homework. Kids and homework generally don’t go hand in hand, especially if it were boys with a lot of time to spare. I doubt any schoolboy in his right frame of mind with enough time to spare would waste it in completing arcane homework, when the same could be copied from somebody that too in the school bus in an hour and half. (And the time utilized to bicycle listlessly; watch TV; play cricket, football; break window panes; break something; fight, quarrel or do what schoolboys in general do). Now that was an art which required great levels of concentration, great hand eye co-ordination of the kind which opening batsmen in a WACA pitch are required to posses; quick reflexes to match the needs of immediate stabilization for a ride sprinkled with bumps, sudden swerves and screeching halts. It was a very common sight to see schoolbags, notebooks and lunch boxes flying around with kids attached to them from one end to another whenever the bus stopped or tried desperately to. Guys with no such talents had to face ignominy at the hands of the teacher, so often great champions emerged out both hands raised, with a smug air of satisfaction of having gallivanted about the previous evening and also completed arduous tasks like homework. The spectators, fanfare, confetti, the podium and the laurel wreath were of course very inconspicuous by their absence.

Exams were when the bus driver had a little piece of mind with a majority of the kids cramming every bit of information till the last minute. Coming back from school meant circumnavigating half the city all over again before reaching home. But then that delight didn’t last for more than two years as I had to shift over to the town bus as circumnavigation lost its charm and classes, special classes and very special classes for the Board Exams became a regular feature.

The town bus saga also began at an early hour of 0700 hrs IST but was a little more interesting with the bus ambling around the countryside, gathering speed and along with it a mélange of people; workers armed with their spades, pickaxes, tobacco and betel leaves heading for an early day; early office goers with their handbags, shouldered bags and lunch; children heading for school; vendors carting their wares and daily fresh provisions; farmers with their produce to the weekly shanty; the odd pious pujari in white heading to his temple and favourite God; students heading for college, all rocking to deafening Tamil film music blaring out from speakers located at the most inconceivable places. The music largely depended on the mood swings of the driver-conductor duo ranging from yesteryear celluloid hits to Rajni songs, sentimental theatrical takes on life songs, just hit the bottle songs, dancing around the tree songs, running around the tree songs or some religious song just to add that bit of faith in their day to day lives and penitence for the previous day’s drinking binge. Things were no different either; kids being pitch forked ahead into baskets of vegetables, last minute homework, penultimate minute studies sprinkled with generous unsolicited advice from some unknown mathematical genius who had the rules of trigonometry embedded into a micro chip in his forty odd year old brain ready to be thrown at unassuming school students. (He much later bore a great resemblance to the Colombian knife thrower in the Antonio Banderas movie- The Desperado; dressed in a white veshti, his forehead smeared with three white stripes of ash, armed to the teeth with his theorems, axioms, proofs which could be thrown at ease like the stilettos and a X standard Maths text book for reloading when required)

It was always a secure feeling traveling in the bus; (regardless of whether it was the school bus or the city bus sorry town bus) you were cocksure that nothing could happen to you as the bus plowed around the roads. If it were the school bus, pedestrians, passers by always gave it a wide berth for they sympathized with a driver who had to haul a hundred odd kids prone to fighting, squealing and crying on a daily basis. The city/town bus was also given a great deal of respect simply because of the ability of the drivers to squeeze the bus through the smallest of by lanes, streets at great speeds like a mad bull and also primarily to avoid oneself to be covered by fresh betel stains.

A streak of independence manifests itself in a boy in the form of a bicycle. The bicycle had always been a part of growing up but it had to come into the picture sometime when going to school some fourteen kilometers away weaving through non-existent roads, tank bunds, broken bridges across broken streams, school traffic and city traffic. And so it did in a very unceremonious way till it became a daily affair. The bicycle meant more time, more time to get up in the morning and watch the early morning NBA play-offs while unhurriedly finishing off breakfast. Homework by then had become a more serious threat to life and existence requiring more than one and half hours and hence was religiously completed the day before.

Ten years down the line the school buses resemble some kind of strange apparition in white (best seen in movies with eerie lighting and a candle to the background music of repeated howls of a very lonely hungry animal of the canine species or a lady at that) that appears in the road like a misguided missile with a manic behavioral disorder. Guess nothing much has changed except for the macabre colour.

NOTES FROM VIZAG-PART I

The city of Vizag is buttressed between the Eastern Ghats and the majestic deep blue Bay in what can be considered as interior gulti [1] land. My first experience of this city was two years back when I was here for almost four months enjoying the sun and sand. It was and still seems to be slowly waking up to some unheard of concepts like book stores, (the variety that sells text books are many and abound the city streets) music stores (leave alone a sole representative), and even the novel second hand concept of a second hand book store that George Orwell (was it?) popularized in his essay about blue bottles, silver fishes and the musty smell of old books.

It still is advertised as the city of destiny whereas as a good friend of mine put it aptly as the city of dust-iny, which is inevitable because of the dusty beaches, dusty roads, dusty buses and nearly dusty everything. There are some really good roads in the form of the highways to compensate for the lack of them elsewhere. Good roads generally beget great drives and being a beach city some great sunsets. Great sunsets, there are many with litter free beaches thanx mainly to the efforts put in by the local authorities who manage a workforce that cleans up the city by night.

This gets us to the main reason and the germ behind this piece-meal of writing. Great drives? I’ve realised they exist only in Hollywood movies where the lead characters never seem to get a butt ache after a loooong drive. The traffic in this city would amaze a Martian endlessly and make him self destruct in a matter of minutes at peak hour that’s if he isn’t run over in the traffic while trying to cross the road in the first place. The trouble being the needless white/yellow stripes in the middle that make the roads a strange mutant descendant of the zebra rather than serve as a partition. Add to that a general design deficiency and a streak of schizophrenia in all the gultis who drive anything that has two wheels remotely related to it. The bus and truck drivers fancy themselves as prototypes for the ‘Monster Truck Madness’ [2] series; the car drivers- nonetheless Senna and Schumacher reincarnate, often find themselves chased down by the many Chirus [3]in their fancy bikes that tear about the city with utter disregard to any rule of the road and to the frantic gestures of portly figures in white and khaki who armed to the teeth with a whistle and a majestic staff unfortunately don’t transform into superheroes at the drop of a stale masala-vada to fight crime with mega budget special-effects.

The city however is a foodie’s delight with some really nice bakeries and restaurants serving delectable cuisine from everywhere, hotels that offer great buffets and a la carte at affordable prices and food served otherwise that burns stomachs and pockets equally. That it invariably tends to be cooked the gulti way with lots of spices and equally copious portions of fat can be overlooked from time to time when the growl of the stomach assumes epic proportions over common sense. No wonder then that the hospitals abounding the city offer quality services to the greedy and......to the needy too.

Glossary

[1] Gulti: Please refer to a previous article regarding Port Blair and Andaman for the exact picture.

[2] Monster Truck Madness: A really stupid computer game that makes the player believe he/she can drive like a trucker under the effects of cocaine, caffeine, nicotine, alcohol that leaves the player with myopia and a migraine. This self-belief is shattered when the skills are tested on road leading to innumerable accidents en route to monster truck nirvana.

[3] Chirus: (abbr) Chiranjeevis- roughly translated to ever lasting. Refers to the omnipresent fans of the gulti superstar [4] who would do anything to emulate their silver screen idol, often with disastrous consequences to others invariably and at times to themselves too.

[4] Superstar: A general confusion surrounds this ominous term and its usage with regards to SRK, Bachchan, Sachin and his truly endorsing band of merry men in blue, Rajni deva and his compatriots from Kollywood or to Chiranjeevi, Mahesh babu and their ilk of logic defying heroes from Tollywood to the holy steps of the High Court over rights, wrongs, copies and copyrights.

Obscured by reality

As a child everyone wants to become something strange or stranger than one another; even though we don’t realize it as children for the simple reason that children are what they are and supposed to be- Children. The exception that I wasn’t; I always wanted to become a train driver and when I got tired of it, I insisted on becoming a truck driver or a fire engine driver for the sheer thrill of blowing the loudest siren in the city. It must be the adventurous streak in every child manifesting itself in some way or the other. The only difference these days is to become a beach bum enjoying the shade of a coconut tree; drinking water from giant coconuts endlessly with a really expensive sound system blaring out ‘A Horse with no name’ keeping the neighbours and storms at bay while a book keeps me pre-occupied. However even the latest radio telescope seems incapable of sighting this distant dream of mine. And that is exactly what it remains. It really wasn’t my fault for that’s exactly what the clean beaches of Vizag/Port Blair reminded me of; of beach bumming and lifeguards of the fairer sex in skimpily clad red swimsuits. It was much later that I realized that this was the absolute myopic dream that was clouding the telescope. Guess some dreams are just meant to be…..