Motorcycle Diaries Page III

Flashback time.

You see, when we arrived in Bangalore, back in the middle of 2006, we had no bikes. I had a Yamaha that was pretty much in the ICU then, and Noel had nothing.

Taking pity on our impoverishment, Noel's uncle, who lives in Coorg, cast around in his garage for a bike that we could use. He and his willing helpers found a bike that they did not use. Which he decided we could use. If you know what I mean.

Trouble is, turns out they did not use that bike for a reason.

It was light, it was flimsy, it was old, and it was ill suited for the long rides that Coorg necessitated. Poor old Uncle, while giving the bike, gave Noel a comforting pat on the shoulder and told him to chill, Noel would be using that bike for city riding only, so it was all OK.

Heh heh.

Now, the other thing that I must mention in the flashback is that the bike had tyres that had not been replaced for a long time, and the tyres carried within them tubes that, well... how shall I put this diplomatically.... were bloody well ancient. Yeah, that's a nice understated way of putting it.

I like my readership. I really do. I admire the way they discern almost immediately the direction this blog is going to take. I can see you now, nodding your heads wisely and saying "Aha! The poor sods. Course they were going have a puncture."

Sure enough, about half an hour or so after I had taken over, and I was burning some serious rubber, I went ahead and did literally that. Burnt rubber. The bike slid, and it skewed. It slithered and it slipped. It skidded and it swerved. After it did all of those thing and then some more, it finally resorted to some moves that would have impressed Prabhu Deva. At which point, the two Neanderthals astride it applied their formidable intelligence to the problem at hand.

Neanderthal 1: "There seems to be some problem"

Alarming tendency on part of the loyal steed to swerve out into the lane of a fast approaching truck.

Neanderthal 2: (Ever alert) "Huh? What?"

Definite wobbling at the back.

Neanderthal 1: (The cogs up top spinning furiously) "DUDE! I think we have a flat!"

Sharp braking, sharper twist of handlebars, and some sharp intake of breath. Loud honking, and some rapid inclusions in list of words that our Mums would never have taught us.

A quick professional, ocular inspection and comparison of the two tyres revealed that the one at the rear was decidedly flatter than the one up front. No toolkit, so no way were we going to able to remove the tyre and roll it along.

Frantic waving of hands at passing trucks resulted in zero response rate.

There was a petrol pump a little up ahead on the other side of the road that Noel visited. He woke up some people, asked if there was a puncture shop, and was told that there was one, about 3 kilometres away, back the way we had come.

So Noel stayed on that side of the road and started walking back. There was a rather large stretch of road in between us, with a divider thrown in for good measure, and then I on this side of the road, pushing for all I was worth. Pitch black darkness, and a long walk ahead.

About fifteen minutes into the walk, I noticed that Noel was nowhere to be seen. No signal on the cell, and slight "Now I be Middle Fingered" kind of feeling.

So yours truly sets off, bike firmly in grip, walking back towards Bangalore, waving desperately to every approaching truck driver, and yelling out "Noel! Noel!" every 500 metres.

Oh, the wonderful joy that is a bike ride.

About an hour later, when I'd about given up hope and was thinking of starting a small farm around those parts, I spotted what I thought was the outline of Noel, walking towards me.

And right then, if you gave me a choice between a scantily clad Angelina Jolie or the hazy outline of Noel Castellino...

I mean, think of the headlines.

"Scantily Clad Jolie and (Fully Clothed) Kulkarni To Take Up Farming in Rural Karnataka".

Wah. Wah Wah.

But to return to a more prosaic blog. We hugged and shed some tears, and went off to wake up the puncture dude, who robbed us blind, repaired the puncture, and we were off again. What was supposed to have taken a maximum of fourteen hours was now overshot by about 3 hours.

The time: 5.30 a.m.

And at six, we were at a town called Chitradurg, where we stopped for tea.

Coming up next: The Awesome Paranthas and the Sons of Bachelors.

Motorcycle Diaries - Page II

Scared.

You should always be scared. If you feel no butterflies at the bottom of your tummy, if you do not glance around in apprehension at the traffic around you, if you do not scan the road ahead repeatedly, alert for the slightest sign of trouble, if you do not run over a checklist of what you have and what you should have got, in your head, over and over again, then turn back and go home.

Never set out on a long ride unless you're scared.

Of course, sixteen hours into the ride, you're dead tired, you wish the trip was through (am I infringing on copyright here?) you are no longer alert, you no longer scan the road, and you wish you'd left yourself back home, but that's beside the point.

At the start of the journey, your blood pressure should be a distinct point of worry for the family physician.

I believe I have mentioned this in passing, but especially so if the whole hullalaboo begins past midnight.

My helmet (which deserves a blog of it's own, and which it shall get one day) was in Pune, and while Noel had got one for himself; I'd used one that was lying around the house. Grey in colour, with a fake sticker of Castrol on it, it was designed for those with extremely small heads. And while the contents of my cranium (or the lack of it. Yes, of course. Ha ha.) would have fit in there a zillion times over, the packaging itself was rather large in size.

As is the case with the rest of my body, but leave that be.

Haan, so the point being, I was wearing a helmet that was decidedly small in size. And therefore bleeding uncomfortable. And when the journey takes about 19 hours to complete, that's no nice thing.

Noel was driving first, and the first challenge was to figure out which was the way to Hubli. No, no road map. Naturally.

So by a long drawn out process of iterative questioning, we finally got ourselves onto NH 4.

It's a smooth enough road to start with, rather heavy in traffic, even at odd hours of the night, with depressing uniformly ugly buildings on both sides of the road. In India, there is no surer way to tell that you are in the outskirts of a city. Small ugly, squatting buildings, painted either in an off putting faint yellow or a hideous pink, with small cast tiron staircases by the side. Mile after mile of the same, until finally the quality of the buildings begins to improve if you're heading into a city, or, the Lord be praised, they disappear, to reveal the Indian countryside.

Which is beautiful, peoples.

This took about an hour to complete, and we were finally in the Karnataka countryside. Not that we could make out much of it, since it was pitch dark, but now what to do?

Now for the twist in the tale. One of many, obviously.

The previous night, self and doppelganger had gotten palpably plastered at the residence of Soumya Mahapatra. Rum and beer, and other consequential odds and ends. I had slept through the day, but Noel had not. He had gone for work, and had been there for a good fourteen hours.

So why was he at the helm? You see, it was the devil or the deep sea types. Either we could count on the adrenalin lasting for a couple of hours, and he could then take it easy at the back, or we could let him take it easy at the back for a couple of hours, and then let him take over. One way or the other... and we chose the one.

Which was fine for the first hour or so.

After which, Noel's supply of adrenalin ran out.

The road had narrowed perceptibly, and it wasn't exactly smooth going either. I was at the back, eyes firmly shut, belting out one song after the other.

This has two advantages. One, you, with your eyes shut, are resting yourself. You ain't driving, you ain't concentrating on anything, you're taking it easy. Which is good news.

Plus, Kulkarni Junior trying to make it like Rafi Sa'ab or Kishore Da is guaranteed to frustrate the Buddha to bits. So anybody in the vicinity, like Noel, for example, is pretty much going to be awake.

But Castellino Junior is to plis not be underestimated, thankoo very much.

Bhaisaab, having spent a long hard day at work, finally decided to let the bike run on auto-pilot for a bit.

See, contrary to common sense and the laws of physics, it is possible to sleep while riding a bike. You can't, of course, sleep as in slumber. But you can let your eyelids become heavy, you can let your head drop, and you can be at the borderline of sleepfulness and wakefulness. I wouldn't advise it, and I didn't write that last sentence, but every guy who has gone on a long bike ride knows what I'm talking about.

What you can't do.. and decidedly so, is try and overtake a lorry on a blind curve. We suddenly found ourselves blinded by rather strong headlights and some frantic honking all around us. I unclenched my eyes and nearly emptied the old bladder right there, because we could make out a rather large and formidable truck bearing down upon us.

Noel woke up about half a second after that, and both of us contemplated the afterlife awhile.

But like I said, the entire pantheon up there was frantically working the cosmic levers and pushing the heavenly buttons, and they did a good job, because a deft zig by Noel, coupled with an adroit zag (for those truly in the know, that last turn of phrase was by way of tribute) by that wonderful specimen of Tata Engg. saw us home and dry.

There might have been the odd shaken fist and perhaps an ill-judged word or two about our ancestry, but you know how those truck drives are.

I patted Noel on the shoulder, a little shaken, and asked bhaisaab if all was OK.

Bhaisaab, who seemed a little James Bond Martini-ed himself, naturally replied in the affirmative, and we set off on our merry way again.

And all was right for the next twenty minutes.

After which, the road curved sharply to the left, and we didn't.

Rude jolts underneath us shook us to wakefulness again, and the weak headlight offered us a terrifying glimpse of large boulders, gaping holes and a complete lack of asphalt. Five meters ahead of which, we could see the road again. Noel could either have braked sharply, resulting in a surefire tumble into God knows what, or he could have grit his teeth, fired up the accelerator for all it was worth, and driven the bike through those five meters, praying for deliverance.

Thankfully, the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost... or far more likely, all three of 'em, with some outsourcing thrown in, were on hand to answer those Speed Post prayers. I'm not saying it was like the parting of the Red Sea, and no manna fell from heaven. There wasn't darkness for six days and seven nights, and no floods were spotted in the vicinity, but we made those five meters and stood by the side of the road.

Alive and decidedly jittery.

Castellino took the helmet off, as did I. We got off the bike and stood looking around us. We peed, and drank some water. We watched the trucks rolling past. Barely an hour and a half done, and about fifteen more to go.

Noel looked at me.

I looked at Noel. Grimace and understanding grin duly exchanged, I took over the rudder.

And what a time we had.

Motorcycle Diaries - Page I

You guys ever seen the TVS Suzuki Max 100 R?

It's a 100 cc bike, small and compact.It's got a bhp rating that, well, can be sneezed at.

Small seats, unimpressive build, not too much power, decent enough performance, but overall, one of those thingies that you use to take you from Point A to Point B. So long as Uncle Euclid is on hand to verify that A and B have no more than 20 kilometres between them.

Anything more than that, and you'd be better off on a bicycle, is the general consensus of the know-alls in the biking world.

Messrs. Castellino and Kulkarni, unfortunately, are pretty much lumbering ignoramuses where the biking world is concerned.

There are people in this world who would argue with passion about how we are lumbering ignoramuses where considerably more than the biking world is concerned, but we (you, gentle reader, and us, Kulkarni and Castellino) shall hold our noses high in the air and ignore their rants. As always.

And make a plan to ride to Goa on that aforementioned, much admired excuse for a motorcycle.

Goa, as the crow, or any bird for that matter, flies, is about 500 kilometers away. Roadwise, it adds another 250 odd of the kms.

Though even the crow, or any bloody bird, for that matter, might think twice about making that foolhardy journey. Especially starting at 12.30 at night. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

This particular bird-brained (do you notice an ever so slight tilt toward ornithology in this blog? I thought so) caper had it's roots in an insatiable desire to go to Goa. Given that one of the undersigned thinks of Goa as his spiritual home (think of our trip to Goa as one of those Mt. Kailash expeditions. In a more evolved form), and that the other's thoughts lie in almost perfect resonance... well, it's a wonder that we've been there only once.

Note to self and Castellino: More trips once you return from the Godforsaken land.

There came a time in our lives when a sudden and fortuitous confluence (is that the word I want?) of holidays enabled us to plan a trip to Goa.

We could have flown there, and we could have taken a bus. We could have hired a car, or we could have borrowed a friends car. OK, I made that last one up... none of our friends are rich enough to afford a car just yet, and even if they were, they wouldn't go around lending it out to the two of us. We have this... ah... reputation.

Deserved, I might add.

But still and all, anything being more plausible than planning to ride all the bloody way to Goa. And on that bike. And starting at 12 at night.

Thing is, we could only leave after finishing work that day.

Thinger is, Noel was planning to leave work at 8, but finally said he could leave only at 10.

Thingest is, Noel could only leave by midnight.

So naturally, we left at midnight too.

Neither of us are particularly devout, but Jesus and the entire pantheon of Hindu deities were to do overtime with a vengeance over the next four days.

We'd planned for this trip, as we do for all else in life, with a meticulous eye for detail.

We had two cloth bags, one of which had our clothes, and the other held our medical kit, and our toolkit.

Our medical kit consisted of one bottle of Dettol. We thought we had swabs, but we didn't.

Our toolkit consisted of one spoon. You see, the bike needs an injection of oil over and above the regular intake. This oil, in a fit of unimagination, is called side oil. Now in order to refill the side oil, the side panel needs to be side removed. OK, I got carried away.

In order to remove it, the side panel needs to be unscrewed. We had a spoon in the kitchen that fit our needs perfectly.

So that was our toolkit.

Yeah. Seriously.

Now, the thing is, about 600 kilometers into the journey, we found that our mechanic, during the last servicing, had removed this screw, making our spoon redundant.

Which, in hindsight, was a good thing, since we'd forgotten to take the spoon along anyway.

More later, people.
I'm hoping you can't wait to hear the rest.

Today's Thing To Do

Disclaimer: Both Noel and I were stone cold sober. Not a drop of alcohol. Nary a one.

No, seriously.

Haan, so here's the thing.
I came back home rather early from office, and we had time to kill. So Noel and I stepped out into the cold dark unforgiving night.
Headed out to a restaurant and drank cup after cup of coffee.
Chatted of this that and the other.
One of the thises, thats and the others included a plan to make fruit punch for Noel's Heppy Budday Party, so expect a post sometime soon about the carnage that is going to happen in Bangalore over the weekend. Keep a watch out for the headlines on the international news too, while you're at it. We might just make it on TV.
Haan, but this not be about that.
This be about the challenge that has driven us mad.
You know how restaurants have paper napkins, no?
Those square white pieces of paper. Those flimsy rags.
While fiddling around with one of them, me be thinking to myself "Hmm, so let's try and make this into a paper boat"
Go ahead.
Do it.
And let me know if you can. You know my address.
Unless I become a guest of the Indian Government over the weekend, it shall be the same.

AWESOMES - III

Two thirty in the morning.

It's cold without being chilly, it's gloomy without being completely dark. Trucks and buses pass you by, and other trucks and buses roar past the other way. There's hardly any cars out at this time of the night - that too, in the middle of nowhere.

Yours, of course, is the only bike you've seen over the past two hours.

On the road for the last 16 hours, cold and wet and chilly.

It's been raining through the day, and you've driven on through the unrelenting downpour. The rain's soaked through your jacket, and you are a wet bedraggled mess. There's a chill in your bones and every part of your body aches. You wish you could stop by the roadside, and cause a truck to pull over. Sit at the back, pay the guy whatever he wants, and sleep through the night in that damn truck.

Sleep. Blessed sleep.

But you won't stop. Can't stop. Because you know that on the morrow, you shall not be able to live with the fact that you gave in.

If this screwed up trip is to be complete, it shall be on the bike.

Because.

You wonder why you do it. Nobody in their right minds drives 750 kilometres in a day, 500 odd of it in pouring rain. Nobody climbs through one of the steepest ghats in the Sahyadris through torrential downpours. Nobody plans on riding through three states in one day. But once you've started on the trip it's got to be complete. That's what it's all about, man.

Don't you go about asking what 'it' is. Loser boy.

When you rub your toes against each other, you get a squelchy feeling in your socks, and you can feel your shoes drip out water. There's a small gap between where the visor meets the helmet and the wind whistles through it effortlessly. Your right foot slips every now and then off the foot peg onto the exhaust pipe, because you're so goddamn tired. And every now and then your helment bumps up against Noel's - causing you to shake off any lingering sleepiness.

And bhaisaab asks : "Dude, you awake na? Everything OK?"

And you ignore the aches, and the pains and the discomfort and wiggle in your sit.

A glance at the watch shows that your turn at riding is a long thirty five minutes away.

And you grit your teeth and grin.

"Haan brother, everything OK" you yell against the wind.

Ride on.

AWESOMES-II

For the first few days that I'd got her, I used to steal downstairs at night. Start her up, and listen. I'd sit beside her, and watch the smoke billow out of her old beat-up muffler. Then get up and rev the accelarator ever so slightly.
And all of a sudden, you'd feel the beast come to life. The slightest touch would awaken the engine, ever alert, and she'd spring to attention.
Introducing, to the idiots who haven't been introduced to her yet, the Yamaha RX-100.
They speak of the Japanese automobile, they speak of the Japanese electronic appliances and the Lord alone knows what else. But for this one single act of holy creation alone, the Land of the Morning Sun could sit back and soak in the applause for decades to come.
Quite simply, she's the best bike I've ever ridden. Yes, there's the Bullet, and yes there's the Pulsar. And no, I haven't ridden a Hayabusa.
But to a guy born and brought up in Pune's traffic, there's nothing that beats the charm of a bike that can turn the sharpest corners, weave in and out of traffic with awe-inspiring agility, move up ahead of anything and everything with humbling ease, and in general, beat the living crap out of anything that moves.
Ooh, but she rocks.
Low slung and sleek, she ain't a classical beauty. But to those in love, she looks about perfect. A no-nonsense headlamp hangs below an equally bare console. There's no fairing to speak of, and the Yamaha engineers, geniuses though they were, weren't too big on rider comfort.
But ah, peoples, get on to the bike, unlock her by that peculiar twist and swing maneuver, and kick start it. Ridiculously easy to start, she springs to life with a quick roar, as two stroke bikes are prone to. Rev her up once, to feel the engine below assure you of it's prescence. Drop her in first gear and release the clutch... ever so slightly.
Yamaha riders, wipe that wistful grin off your face.
She rolls into motion, quickly and smoothly, gathering her pace as you shift rapidly to second. The high pitched scream that the first gear gives off settles into an ever so slightly quieter beat, as you hit... oh, say, 25 kmph.
Ratchet her into third, and feel her gear up for action. She gives you a slight push back and the speedometer arcs forward to 40, 45, and then 50.
She's screaming along now, begging to be thrown into the fourth. You hold her back until 55, feeling the madness engulf you. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see the envious glances as you roar away in smoke. If you have a pillion behind you, there's some rapid prayers being sent straight up via speed post.
And then, just before you hit 60, you put the gear into fourth and rev up the accelarator.
Biking nirvana.
There.
Now she's in her element. Roaring along at 90, you speed along the roads, swerving first left, then right, ducking and weaving past odd ball obstacles, and I assure you, doing this on a Yam is incomparable fun.
And then you reach a traffic signal.
Hah.
Hah hah.
Repeat above, with around fifty losers eating your smoke.
Orgasmic, nothing less, I tell you.
I've driven to Goa on the thing, and it was 14 hours of sheer pleasure.
But the Yam ride that I remember the most is in December, 2005.
I and Denny boy were riding back to Pune, and Denny boy being Denny boy, we started off at around 4, when Plan A had us leaving at 2. Now the thing is, I wanted to hit the Ghats before sunset, which, the non-geographically challenged among you know, happens quite early in December.
So once we left behind us the town of Panvel, we hit that part of the NH-4 which is four laned, fast and wonderfully smooth. For almost an hour, that bike went nowhere below 90, and I'm guessing Denny boy's BP was somewhere around twice that.
But with the sun about to set, wonderfully empty roads, and a freshly serviced Yam giving me all she's got, I had the time of my life.
She's here with me in Bangalore, with a freshly rebored engine, and 500 kms to go before she becomes the queen that she once was. After that, it's lovey dovey all over again.
Bangalore is around 900 kilometres away from Pune.
No, no... random info.
I've nothing in mind. I swear.
P.S. With eternal thanks to Binoy Oommen.

The Awesomes - I

Hyallo peoples.

I have the purpose now. The glint in my eye and the fire in my belly. And if you can make the leap of the logic, you will deduce that I have a lot of fire.

Hah. Out joked you there, did I not?

Haan, so anyways, juvenile humour apart, here's the thing. I'm going to write about things that I consider awesome until I get bored of it. These could include people, things, companies, babes, beer... you get the picture. One blog posting per awesome.

Funda clear?

If you happen to have things in mind that you think are awesome, drop me a note, and I shall write about it, if I agree with your assessment, and if you pay me a beer. I'll write about it even if I disagree with your assessment and you pay me three.

And today's awesomeness is about Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

The Man himself.

What the batter, no bhai log? Stuff of legend and all.

There's three different generations strutting around in India right now, puffing out their chests at the thought of being able to tell their kids, I saw Sachin bat in flesh and blood.

Three different generations that have lived and died with the flashing willow of the dimunitive one.

Three different generations that have heaped abuse on him for chasing a wide one outside the off stump, but hey, now what to do? The man is like that only. Sometimes he flatters to decieve.

More often than not though, the man has only flattered. And charmed. A beguiling charm that makes you draw in your breath and whistle in amazement at the sheer artistry of the magician.

It's become an all too familiar sight for us, Sachin walking out onto the field and taking guard. Usually, but not always, scuffing out a small line right ahead of leg stump,bat resting lightly on the right shoulder, held lightly across his chest, he'll survey the field, taking in the field placements.

A short, sharp jab of the head, a slight flex of the knees, another short sharp jab of the head, and India's favorite warrior takes guard.

And a nation holds its breath. Fathers drop their newspapers to the side, watching with keen eyed interest. The kids sit cross legged on the floor, chin cupped in hands, hoping against hope. Aunties rush in from the kitchen, hands smeared with dough. Crowds gather outside shops that have televisions, straining to catch a glimpse. And in the stadium, where a moment ago there ruled pandemonium, there now descends a tense silence.

Game on.

And then the bowler runs in, and delivers the ball.

And until the outcome is known, I swear to God, not a breath is drawn in India.

Right from the time he took apart Abdul Qadir in that farcical one day match in Pakistan, to present day, Sachin has provided us with the kind of entertainment that no other can. I'll be the first to admit that Dravid is technically a more correct batsman, and a more dependable one. Jacques Kallis can defend better than he can, sure. Ponting has won more matches for Australia, and if you had to choose someone to bat for your life, it'd be Steve Waugh... whatever that means.

Haan re baba.

But plis to be telling. If you had to choose between a Sachin Tendulkar straight drive, just past the umpire, all along the ground, with that spine tingling paradoxical combination of flair and compactness, and any shot that these other gentlemen might have to offer... hain?

The defense rests it's case, as those Amreekans say.

Cast your mind back to that time the curse of modern commentary, Navjot Singh Sidhu, had a sprained neck in Napier, back in 1994. And he of the funny voice strode out onto the field, and decimated the hapless Kiwis. 84 in 47 balls, and they still speak of him in hushed tones in those parts of the world.

Or the 1996 World Cup. 523 of the very best, 65 in the semi-final and yet, not quite there. That innings in Benoni, when he taught the Zimbabwe team, along with some members of his own entourage, about the art of batsmanship. The second test in ...Newfoundland, was it?... when he and Mohd. Azharuddin reminded the South Africans that hey, we can bat too you know.

And how.

Or when the king of the cricketing world paraded his sublime skills in Sharjah in 1998. Ah, those two glorious days.

The heartbreak of 1999. 136 runs chasing 272 to win. Exactly half the runs were scored singlehandedly by this man, and then they collapsed. Rumour has it that no one spoke to him a couple of days after, such was the anger within.

And on and on, one may ramble, for after all, there are so many memories the Bombay Bomber affords us.

But the one day that I shall never forget is March 1, 2003.

I'm not anti-Pakistan, at all. Certainly not in the ultra right wing kind of way.

But hey peoples, if it's an India v Pakistan cricket match, swarry! India all the way, plis to be yelling.

And on that day, boy did he yell.

In about 90 minutes of outrageous, out-of-this-world savagery, he destroyed one of the finest attacks of that World Cup, carrying India through to the Super Six stage.

There was much dancing on the streets that night.

Yeah, I like understatements.

And now, in the twilight phase of his career, he's still the talisman that he always was. There are others, and we bat deeper, and we chase better, and we're not as reliant upon him as we once were.

And we're more flexible, and fitter, and blah.

Yeah man... yeah to all that.

But I still don't breathe when the bowler runs in.

Bangalore rocks, people.

I love the place. It's got pretty babes, Pecos, and my home out here has already turned into a place full of memories.

But ladies and ledas, me be from Pune, thankoo very much.

Home, no matter how you cut it, is home.

And true to form, it's the small memories that bite the most.

Forgive the senti-giri. It's nearing midnight in office and I'm the only warrior left on the floor. And no matter how many plaques and certificates you get, the stare of complete bemusement that the security guy gives you when he walks by to close the lights kinda puts everything in perspective.

"Now there", you can hear him thinking,"there sits a guy who's got 'Status: Single' written all over him"

Of course, he's thinking this in Kannada, but language is communication, no?

And then you remember those times back in Pune when midnight was a lot more fun than it is now.

OK, not that much fun, you little pervert, but fun anyhow.

And the image that comes to mind is Binoy's living room at midnight, with dinner done (bless you Aunty), and a Champion's League game to follow. But I jump ahead of myself.

Binoy Oommen, people, is the oldest BBKTK I have. Although for the first couple of years, he was anything but. More like a BBKTNK, if you know what I mean.

But to cut a long story short, over the years, bhaisaab is the closest buddy I've had.

And although the buddyness is based on a lot many things, one of the most important ingredients happens to be a complete agreement over one thing.

Laziness is to the good.

We'd evolved this system where we would spend entire days lounging over at either his place or mine, until the respective mother grew exasperated and dropped broad hints about how there was indeed, a world outside. At the precise point when the hints stopped and the broom came out, we'd head out over, sit on the bike and go over to the other home.

Process repeat.

A typical day would consist principally of one thing, around which all other (shudder) activities (no seriously... there's something repugnant about that word, no?... say it out aloud.... activity.... yuck) were scheduled.

Sleep.

So we'd get up by around 11, and watch T.V until we were too hungry to ignore the hunger.

And if we were at Binoy's place, that would mean a trip to Mal Tup. For those not in the know, kindly ignore, and remain puzzled while those in the know draw in breath reverently.

Saliva over-production types se hai, no?

And then sleep.

In the evening, we'd go out for a game of football, or maybe tennis, or maybe a swim. Not because we wanted to and all, but dinner's got to be done justice to, no?

And then the resident sorcerer at the man's place would conjure up chicken curry, beef cutlets, hot rice and the most incredible dal fry, ghee and (sigh!) pickles.

And then two extremely indolent buggers would settle back on the sofas and watch TV.

You know, Champions League matches begin at around 1.30 or so, India time. And while at Binoy's place, I've never seen one.

Fast asleep, every time.

No re, you idiot.

That's a good thing.

At Long Long Last

It's up and running, and please do have a looky.
www.18tillidye.blogspot.com

Confessions. But What The Heck.

I'm in the dock, and I'm guilty and all.
As charged.
The courtroom, packed to the rafters, is abuzz with shock, with consternation, and some are outright indignant.
"How could he?" is the general refrain.
That treachery is afoot seems to be the overriding opinion, and who can blame them?
For yours truly spent two hours at Pecos, and the only thing he drank out of a mug in that period was water.
Yes, indeed.
One hundred and twenty minutes at Pecos and not a single gulp of beer.
No puns, no sting in the tail, no punchline. That's what happened.
We landed up at the temple, and we ordered food.
I had eggs and bacon, and sausages and mashed potatoes. And chicken stew and appams. And chilli potato (awesome!). And scrambled eggs and dosa. And loads of coffee.
What a place, people. I mean, we know about the beer (heh heh. Yes, we do. Kinda.), but the temple houses another god, and he be pretty OK too.
This might not make sense to people from other parts of the world, but Pecos is pretty much like Apache at night and Good Luck by morning. A pub that does an incredibly decent breakfast.
Me be in love all over again.
And to all those people who're about to break contact with the undersigned, this was the morning after.
After eight pitchers of beer between four people, two of whom consumed one between them.
And I was on the other team, thank you very much.

Tingu Kahaani

The dude got off at the Kadamba Bus station in Panaji.
8 a.m.
Saturday morning in Panaji in November, especially around the bus stand, tends to be a little un-Goan.
Hectic.
Buses and people, yelling and gesticulating, set shoulders and a purposeful walk.
The due was ok with it though. He checked his watch, checked his cell, dashed off a couple of replies, made one phone call, and then strode out of the station in search of a rickshaw.
The dude had come to Goa alone. It was a brief holiday, a break in the routine at work, and he wanted to make the most of it.
Headed off in a rickety rickshaw towards Candolim, a place where he'd always stayed at Goa.
At Corvorim Circle, he took a left, headind down the smooth, narrow, winding road, towards Candolim.
Goa lives in it's villages, and not in the way Gandhi meant it.
Broadly speaking, there are two kinds of villages. The ones that the tourists have discovered, and the ones that they haven't. The discovered ones are busy bustling places, with a bar on every corner, and a Nepali woman selling t-shirts at every block. The second kind of village acts as the supplier to the first.
The dude stayed just beyond the church at the end of the road coming in from NH-17. The first day was spent at the shack on the beach, sipping the odd beer, going for the odd swim, making eyes at every girl that passed by, and in general, doing that which the non-Goan guys in Goa do.
The Goan guys do the same thing, but they're smarter.
One, they do it all year round.
Two, they get the non-Goan guys to pay for it.
On Sunday, it was pretty much the same routine, save a visit to Anjuna beach. There's not much to do at Anjuna beach. It's a rocky outcrop that ends with a beautiful view of the sea, and gets crowded on Wednesdays because of the market.
The dude had a bus to catch in the evening, so he was running on a tight schedule. Having spent the afternoon at Anjuna, he wanted to make sure he'd get back on time.
Having forgotten his cellphone, and wearing no watch, he looked around.
His eyes settled on an old guy sitting in a chair outside what must have been his shop. His shop was fairly ordinary, stocked with beer, cigarettes, and the usual odds and ends that you'd expect to find in a shop such as this. Pencil cells, cheap torches, camera rolls, and other paraphernalia that suddenly becomes irresistible when you're a toursit.
The old guy was sitting on a rickety wooden chair outside the shop, catching the afternoon sun. There was an opened, half-finished bottle of Kings by his side,and a wide-brimmed straw hat drooping over his face. A copy of the local paper was slung over one arm of the chair. The chin was tilted forward, the tummy was moving in a hypnotic slow cadence, and the man was clearly at peace with the world.
But the dude noticed that the old guy had a wrist watch.
He walked up and tapped the old guy gently on the shoulder.
The old guy didn't wake up. Up this close, you could hear the gentle snoring.
The dude shook his shoulder, this time with a little more force. Cleared his throat, and asked "Um... excuse me?"
The old guy stirred. Shook his head slowly, and lifted his head. Cleared his throat. Looked around unhurriedly for a little while, and then, without lookng at the dude, bent down to take a sip of the beer.
And then looked at the dude with a slow smile.
Expectantly, but in no hurry.
The dude smiled in response. Pointing to his own wrist, asked what the time was.
The old guy looked out over the sea. The white clouds, the ships in the far distance, the hesitantly blue sea in pleasing contrast to the azure sky. And the sun, beginning it's downward journey, throwing off a pleasant warmth, tempered by it's imminent descent.
The old guy lookd at the dude and smiled. Yawned, stretched his legs.
Without looking at the watch on his wrist, said "Why son, it's evening time."
Tipping his hat graciously, the old guy fell asleep again.
Ah, Goa.

Goa.

Off to my spiritual home. Be back with tales in the telling.
Amen.
Oh sorry.
Cheers.

pepsi

Imagine.
Not the Lennon wala imagine.
Normal, small-scale imagine.
You're back in school, and it's the summer holidays. If you are a schoolkid reading this, I and my readership hate you. So there.
Haan, so school time, summer holidays. 11 in the morning. You've just got up.
Had breakfast. Now that we're imagining anyways, I vote for sheera. With pickles by the side.
Breakfast done, and the first yell comes up from down below.
Gully cricket time.
Until everybody assembles, there are around three or four of you, who practise shots, talk of this that and the other. About how Tendulkar scored that awesome century the other day. And got out like a duffer in the next match. As an aside, do you realize that three different generations have grown up saying exactly that?
About the match that you played last week in twilight, the one that went down to the last over, last ball, with only one wicket in hand.
About your classes and tuitions. About that awesome vada-pav. About the hot girl in the next building.
About other equally crucial stuff.
Until slowly but surely, there are around ten to fifteen of you guys, all ready to play cricket. And within the confines of your locality, by the rules forced upon you by the architechture, you start to play game after game of that great Indian past-time.
And then you shall quarrel, and dispute, and fight and play, and yell and appeal, and spend the next three hours playing match after match after match, changing teams, breaking windows, losing balls and in general, having the time of your lives.
And then, when it's all over, you shell out whatever coins you have your pockets and pool in to get fifteen pepsis.
Not the bottles.
You remember those long lollies of ice, wrapped in plastic, flavoured with cola, orange, and chocolate? Priced at Rs. 0.50, Rs. 1, and Rs. 2.
Bite open at a corner at the top and suck. Sit with buddies and talk again.
Day after day of this, until school strikes again.
Nostalgic and all.
But I wouldn't mind a pepsi right now.

BBKTK

The funda I'll explain later. For now, we're going to call them the BBKTK buddies.
Now, buddies is fairly self-explanatory, no?
The guys who get you home when you have puked at a pub. The guys who tell your mom "Yes, Aunty. He was with me the whole night. Just now only he left for home." And then start searching the city.
The dependables.
But for all of us, even within that circle of close buddies, there are a couple, maybe more, of buddies who are absolutely beyond everything else. Beyond friendship, beyond family, with a level of trust that just is.
BBKTK buddies.
You may quarrel with them, God forbid, you may have tiffs, and sometimes, the Good Lord may throw sterner challenges.
But BBKTK buddies are there. Always.
They'll be there with you in your downest (yes, that's a word. I say so.) moments. They'll be there to get piss drunk when you want to celebrate. They'll be there when you want to go for a long ride. They'll be there with you in your "Because." moments.
Brothers, basically.
And I don't quite know whether I believe in Him or not, but Sirji, if you exist, thankoo for the BBKTK's.
Amen.
Haan, now for the explanation.
You have seen Munnabhai MBBS no?
Ess, ess. Wonderful movie and all.
Haan, to in that movie, there's this part where Munnabhai tells somebody to go do something that's thoda impossible. So that guys says that it's not gonna happen. Impossible and all.
Enter Circuit.
With an expression that conveys in equal measure, amazement, incredulity, sorrow, anger, and plain pure confusion.
How can you even for a moment, you poor sap, think of not doing whatever it is that Bhai told you to do? Kaisa possible?
Because rule no. 1 in life is:
"Bhai Bola Karneka, To Karneka."
Figure out who they are, people. And hold on to them with all you've got.
The beer tastes a lot better when they're around.

That Non-Bugger Barrie...

For the record, I stand corrected.
Wonderful movie.
Finely etched characters, wonderfully scripted tale, lovely cinematography, plenty of moving moments, and that boy Peter deserved an Oscar.
And yeah, yeah, yeah.... Barrie was awesome. Johnny Depp, ladies and gentlemen, can act.
Subliminal after all, dammit.

Zen and the Art of Sundays

Haan so see.
You've heard of those Zen guys and their insistence on calmness and sereneness and thinking about your face before you were born, and contemplating a rock garden and other such "Arre but!..." stuff?
All supposed to cultivate a state of nothingness, emptiness, and everlasting peace with oneself. They go to great lengths to get there too.
Missing the point, those guys. They do stuff in order to not do stuff.
Consider, on the other hand, the typical male Sunday.
Correction.The typical bachelor male Sunday.
Get up in the... no no.... wrong already.... get up in the afternoon,have grub.
No bath.
Sit in front of TV, watch Mithun act in inexplicable movie.
Feel rumblings of hunger.
Order pizza.
Open cans of beer.
Nod off to sleep.
Come out of hibernation, watch Schumi defeat somebody.
Open cans of beer.
Order rich oily Moghlai food. Watch Manchester United defeat somebody.
Open cans of beer.
Have Death by Chocolate, watch some late night movie.
Need I say it?
Sleep.
The globe over, millions of young people practice the art, albeit with suitable variations, with zeal and unflagging enthusiasm, day after day, as often as they can.
Who says they ain't religious?
Course they are. Zealots, for all practical purposes.
God bless Sundays.
Amen.

Are you ready boots? Start walking!

I know I want beer. A date with Angelina Jolie wouldn't hurt. Throw in a Suzuki Hayabusa for good measure, and while you're at it, add a bungalow in Goa... right on the beachfront.
In that way and like that, I know what I want from life.But not that way and not like that, me be thinking, me exactly like you, the reader.
I mean, when you're a couple of beers down, and the beats of "I still haven't found what I'm looking for" fill the room, biting of lower lip and ponderous nodding of head, no?
Most of us are doing well enough in life. A decent enough education, a nice cushy job, or awaiting one, family nicely settled in and all. And yet, deep down, when confronting yourself about what it is that you want to do with your life, there isn't half a decent answer forthcoming.
Most of us, including me, don't know, haven't felt, that kind of passion, or single-mindedness. You see it, you hear of it, but experiencing it is thoda the impossible... apparently.
Meet Pradeep Apte, professor of economics at Fergusson College, Pune.
A reluctant commerce graduate, a teacher by happenstance, one of the most fantastic beer drinkers I know (and given the company I keep, that is saying something, trust you me), an avid enthusiast of classical music, an awe-inspring knowledge of history, knows Maharashtra inside out, an acknowledged WTO expert, amateur wine-maker,self-taught mathematician, cine enthusiast, Sanskrit scholar and not that he has much of a choice, mentor to a certain Ashish Kulkarni, among other varied things.
Well, OK, that last bit isn't really a talent that he has as such, but ain't he lucky? I mean, imagine mentoring me.
Jokes apart, the point of that little paean was to let you know that Pradeep Apte, till date, has no clue about what he wants to do with his life.
Seraphic smile in place, Professor Apte has a rocking time, 24/7. If there
be an apt description of the man, it is that he is benignly curious.
If there be something that he knoweth not, he tries and changes the status quo. And if it doesn't change soon, that's ok.
With that remarkably laidback phiosophy unswervingly in place, Apte Sir has had a rocking time of it, thank you very much.
Moral of the gyaan session?
Not knowing what you want, come to think of it, may not be such a bad thing. The world is your playground. Go explore.
Comprenez-vous?

That Bugger Barrie

The title that you're seeing up there won by a very short head.
The original billboard had "Rastogi strikes again".
Readers who've stuck with me through thick and thin might remember a post about Chaman, king of the raving lunatics.
This weekend, he laid further claim to the title. And then some.
On Friday morning, at around nine, our man heads off from the hostel to the Institute, fully intending to spend a day in college, the good little boy that he is. Trouble is, as he ends up at the Insti, his enthusiasm wanes, his shoulders droop, and the ghost of Gokhale claims another victim.
First lecture: bunked.
After dawdling here and there, he logs on to this blog, and starts going through it's pages. Until he reaches the part about the Mysore trip.
Now, for reasons that needn't be gone into here, I've landed into what might euphemestically be termed hot water because of that post. And that's putting it mildly.
But it all turned out to be worthwhile... one of those investments that paid rich dividends in the long run.
For after reading that post and staring vacantly into space, at around ten thirty in the morning, Abhinav Kumar Rastogi rushes back to the hostel, packs his bag (one t-shirt, that's it) and climbs into a rickshaw, to hot-foot it to Pune Railway Station.
Objective: Catch the first train headed out to Bangalore.
We've all thought of pulling off madcap schemes like this. The urge to do something totally, completely, wildly mad, and let's think about the consequences later.
Hey, I should know. I went to Mysore.
To cut a long story short, Chaman landed up in Bangalore, and Pecos found a new fan.
Among other wild things that happened that day, (yes, yes, heh heh and all that, thank you very much), Noel, Chaman, Soumya and I managed to work our way through 11 pitchers in about six hours.
There are those who shall read what's written above and go "Wow! 11 pitchers... awesome stuff, man"
There are those knowing, experienced, wise souls, who shall raise a discerning eyebrow, and nod in approval. "Good, good, so you managed it in one day."
There IS a third kind of readership, but we shall be brave and try and ignore their pointed comments.
Which brings me to the title of this blog.
Did you know that Johnny Depp's character, the nutcase who plays J.M. Barrie in that movie, does NOT go and fall in love with Kate Winslet's character?
I mean, if all you knew about the movie was the fact that there's this dude, Barrie, who lives next door to this female, enacted by Winslet... would you or would you not think that they would like... you know.... fall in love at the very least... if not actually do stuff. Ain't that par for the course?
Apparently not! He goes and falls in love with the kids. And then writes that book, and then there's hullalaboo... but not once, apparently does he show the slightest interest in the woman.
I mean, dude! Get a life!
Which has got nothing to do with anything, yes, I know.
It's just a major grouse I have against Depp, Barrie and everybody associated with that movie.
And for the record, the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean isn't that hot either.
Sigh.
Gonna land up in hot water again.

And well, there you go...

I went back to Pune about a week back.
And I've got good news and I've got bad news.
Pune is as Pune was. The roads are as bad as they ever were, possibly worse. I know, I know, not humanly possible, but who ever told you the PMC was human? It's still raining as much as it ever was, and the lights still go at the drop of a hat. Yup, nothing's changed in Pune.
And now for the bad news.
College ain't the same when you're not in it.
It's a feeling that sticks with you throughout. You meet everybody, and that is a wonderful experience. All the teachers, all the buddies, all the supporting cast... and all that is to the good.
But the magic ain't there.
Everybody back there has his or her own life to lead, and although everybody will talk to you, you get the distinct feeling that you're part tourist, part visitor to a museum, if you know what I mean. It's like you've packed a pair of binoculars and gone on a trip to the past. You can see but please don't touch kind of visit.
The rooms have nostalgia plastered all over them, the corridors have memories, and worst of all, you suck at TT.
Old and all. I'm the one with the salary now.
Unasked for advice to those still in college. Not that you needed to be told, but peoples, please party.
Every night.

Goa Bro

Chya man.
Underlying tensions, and currents and crap like that is the sucky.
Chaman, you the rock.
Cheers.

Fish Eat Popcorn. Seriously.

You know how it is with long road trips. You should plan them properly. Sleep well the night before, ensure that your bike is in good shape, well serviced, ensure that you have packed your bag the night before, and you know, stuff like that.
Absolutely essential, because going on bike trips ain't for the fainthearted.
Heh heh heh.
See, what happened was...
I and some guys from the office went to this roadside dhaba on Friday night. Let's unwind after a long hard week, and all that jazz. Which we did in style, finally giving up the ghost at two in the morning. At two in the morning, my roomie welcomes me with a khamba of rum.
Say the hellos to the Noel Castellino.
Noel is a fantastic drinker, an awesomely scary bike rider, a guy with a sense of humor, and all in all, just the kind of guy who should be welcoming you home at two in the morning. All the more so when he's accompanied by 720 ml of Old Monk.
So we drank until 5 in the morning, which is when we figured we should listen to Pearl Jam on full blast.
We have a third guy staying with us. Who roared in our faces about five minutes after that Pearl Jam session started.
Say a very timid hello to Jagandeep Singh.
At which point we retired to the terrace with the last of the rum.
Our terrace overlooks the airport. I requested the airport to launch a couple of airplanes, and abused it when it didn't oblige. I requested the sun to come up, and hey, it did oblige. Then I got bored.
So swaying slightly, I ran through a checklist of what is feasible, and what is not.
Which is why, 15 minutes later, Noel and I were on an old beat up bike... a Suzuki Max 100... headed towards Mysore.
When you are piss drunk, you can drive. Seriously. All you have to do is focus on the road, and pray that you are conditioned enough to figure out the accelarator, brakes and gear by instinct.
Where the system falls apart is when you are piss drunk AND dead sleepy. I have honestly no clue about how we did the first 50 odd kilometres.
Noel was fast asleep behind me, and I'm not claiming that I was completely awake either. It got really scary when Noel bumped his head against my shoulders... waking me up in the process.
So what I did was, I drew the bike up on the side of the road, and Noel and I fell asleep there.
Just parked the bike, and right there on the road, we went to sleep. At around seven thirty in the morning.
At ten, I wake up, to see blue sky above me. My view of the azure is suddenly blocked by a grinning bearded face, and which is when I realise that the hands of the bearded bugger are freaking slapping me.
Not good.
I scramble to my feet, upon which the kin of Veerappan grins happily and jabbers away in an unidentified tongue. I shake Noel awake, who stares at the apparition in shared terror, and we clamber onto the bike and race away.
Saturday morning, nothing out of the usual.
On and on and on to Mysore, not quite awake, not quite asleep, only stopping on the way to have breakfast.
Reach Mysore at around noon, take up lodging, and fall asleep.
Do the toursit rounds in the evening, stuff that I'm sure you don't want to hear about. Chamundi Hills, by the way, affords an excellent view of the city. Must visit.
Find ourselves a restaurant that serves beer at 120 bucks to the pitcher, and dinner is done, on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.
The next day, post breakfast, we start the ride back to Bangalore, stopping on the way to visit some bird sanctuary. Where honest to goodness, we see only herons and crows.
But hey, it wasn't an entirely wasted trips. Sylvan surroundings, quiet as hell on the riverside, lovely islet in the midlle of the river, dotted with herons, and two kids, who while sitting by the little quay, throw popcorn to the fish.
And the fish eat them!
Did you know fish eat popcorn? I mean, I know you learn something new everyday and all, but that was one of life's weird lessons.
And headed back thence to Bangalore.
And this time around, it was the same biking experience, the kind that is now normal for me. Not the sleepy kind that was a first, while headed to Mysore.
The one back was where I noticed the coutnryside, the abundance of sugarcane fields, the majestic mountains, and their mysterious features, the wide unending road... when you get time to sing, think, grin, and make wry smiles at self.
Mile after mile of you and your thoughts, and thats what its all about, innit?
I type this on Sunday evening, dead tired and happier than I've been in a long time.
Bike rides, ladies and gentlemen, are my thing.
I keep telling myself that I'll grow out of this, but so far, thankfully, I've been a very good liar.

Home Cooked Phood

Bhavna called up yesterday, saying that she'd baked a cake, and it had turned out very well.
That's a problem because Bhavna is in Delhi, and I'm in Bangalore. Worse, Ameeta is in Bombay. Worser, Mom is in Pune.
If you don't know who these people are, it don't matter. What matters is that I'm not in the city in which those people are. Sigh. Which is what today's blog is about. Not moaning and griping about how living in a new city sucks (it doesn't. So long as the city has shops that sell beer, we're doing ok), but about home cooked phood.
It doesn't matter if you're over at a friend's place, or at your own home. Mom, or Aunty, as the case may be (and ain't that a wonderful thing... the automatic Auntification of buddies' moms? Makes you less embarassed about wolfing down everything on the table. Not, of course, that it would have been a problem otherwise) is already in the kitchen, figuring out ways to stuff the bottomless pits that are sitting in her living room right now.
I don't know what else they taught brides to be back in the late 70's and early 80's, and I don't know if its a common lesson imparted over the ages, but one lesson that seems to have been drummed in with renewed vigour is "Feed the young buggers every inch of the way".
And we ain't complaining, thank you very much.
Mom's chicken curry, Ameeta's tiramisu (sigh!), Anju Mavshi's mutton curry, Shashi Mavshi's anything and everything, Aunty's (Binoy) biryani, Aunty's (Dennis) Beef Fry, and Kaku's (Anish) fish feasts. These aren't listed in any particular order... all of them are culinary marvels, designed to make you salivate, go goggle eyed, wistful and highly envious of anybody who might be revelling in these gastronomical delights while you can't.
At the moment, all others on the list are technically feasible, but one particular church is closed until further notice. Anish's parents head over to the States on a three month trip, and I can't make it to Bombay before that. Double sigh.
Because you see, Kaku is a magician. She takes fish into her kitchen, does I don't know what in there, and comes out with works of art that would have made the combined forces of Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, and Van Gogh seem positively pedestrian in comparison. Pomfret fry, prawns pickle, Bombay Duck Gravy, prawns rice, and that champagne of the Konkan... sol kadhi.
Sweet revenge for Anish. I and Dennis have been torturing him for two years now, with detailed reports of meals had at his place, while he does abstruse stuff in OR out in the American wilderness... but guess who's gonna have the last laugh after all.
Bugger.
Ah well, here's to the day we're able to sit in that living room, watching Sachin maul some bowling attack on the telly, waiting for a plateful of home cooked food to land in our laps.
Oh, and here's to refills as well.

Bombed, Not Bowed.

That's what today's banner on the Economic Times says.
Absolutely, man.

Bombay is a relatively new city, only coming into prominence towards the middle of the 19th century. I'm no expert in history, but that's the way it seems to untutored eyes.
Since then it's growth has been phenomenal. The island city has grown, metamorphosed, mutated, into a thriving, bursting-at-the-seams mega-metropolis, where your dreams are your reality-to-be.

It acts as a human magnet, drawing close to three hundred new migrants a day, fitting them effortlessly into every nook and corner of its it's widely spread out area.
Year on year, the city has grown, and grown wiser. It has seen itself change from a bustling trade centre to a hub of the freedom struggle, to the undisputed Queen of the Arabian Sea, to finally, one of the biggest, and most important, cities in the world.

And it's people, over the years, have helped, aided and willingly abetted in it's change.There is something wonderfully admirable about the Mumbaikar's spirit. Come rain or shine, come tempests or politician's cavalcades, the average Mumbaikar takes it all in his stride, fights his way to work, and fights his way back. Sleeps for as long as his planned destiny allows him, and repeats the process day in and day out. This is not the place for a sociological, or anthropological, or any other gical discourse, and don't you worry, I'm not about to dish one out.

All I'm about to do is sit and admire all those people who came out today morning, climbed into those very same trains that just a day back were mobile coffins, and made their way to work.
All of them, every single one, while climbing into those trains must have felt a flash of fear. All the vendors on the platforms, the shoe-shine boys, the cops manning the stations, the drivers of those trains, the mass of people that makes Western Railways what it is, all of them must have wondered about reporting to work today.

But true to what we've come to expect from the city of dreams, no change in the story, thank you very much. All of them, every single one, is on the job, and doing their stuff. They might have a queasy feeling in their tummy, and they may jump at sudden noises, but they're going to go to work, because today, that's what Mumbai is all about. The only noticeable difference is, apparently, that the Western line is running about 10 to 15 minutes late. And if Western Lines is what it used to be, that's not going to last for long either.

If the aim of those idiots, whoever they are, was to paralyse the life of the Mumbaikar, sorry and all, but they're going to have to scratch their head and get a loud red F on their report card. FO, come to think of it.
Mumbai lives, ladies and gentlemen, and it's taken this too, in it's stride.

I might be infringing on her copyright here, but I'm sure good old Mira wouldn't mind.
Salaam Bombay!

I'm a believer!

She stands still, glistening with sweat. Her wonderfully curvaceous body, resplendent in that wonderful soft light, seeming to possess an almost ethereal quality, as if she is set to rise any moment from this mortal earth. The temptation mounts.
She has a come hither look around her, unabashedly seductive, unabashedly provocative. She has nothing to hide, and she has nothing to prove. She awaits you.
You look her over, savoring the moment, feeling that thirst which Mother Nature commands you must. It is, after all, in the fitness of things… the way God meant it to be.
You take a step closer and you feel the tingling of anticipation all over. Matters seem to take a turn for the inevitable. You’re under the spell and neither of you are complaining.
At that moment, it is as if there are only the two of you.
You’ve ever had that feeling with a bottle of Kingfisher Premium? I go through it every time.
If ever the Nobel Peace Prize Committee gets around to announcing the “Ultimatest Contribution to Peace” Prize, I think they should delve deep into the pages of history and award it to the guy who invented beer.
Because nothing promotes peace as does a beer session. Would Hitler have been ranting and raving his way all over Europe if he’d grown up drinking beer and listening to the Doors belting out Roadhouse Blues? Would Attila have been hell bent on ravaging the world if he had a crate of Mallya’s best right beside him?
He’d have thought about it and all, and he might even have had the willpower to think of actually getting up, never mind that last unopened bottle. But right then, some kindly soul would have slipped in a Bob Marley CD, and Attila would have slumped back in his chair, benign grimace on his visage.
Beer does that to you, see? It soothes the senses and drives away the bad memories. It chills your gullet and warms the cockles of your heart. It shows you the world in a kinder gentler… maybe more hazy, but that’s not the point… light.
And it does that every single time.
Come back from a football game on a Sunday afternoon, fall back on the couch in the living room, put on a movie that you know you’re not going to watch, and open a bottle of beer.
Sit up late at night to catch a cricket match out of the West Indies, and open a bottle of beer.
Hanging out with buddies over the weekend with nothing to do… you get the picture.
But my personal favorite?
Wake up at 8 in the morning in Goa. Step up to the window and watch the waves break in the far distance. Walk into the bathroom and grin at self in the mirror. Walk back into the room, open the fridge, and get self a bottle of chilled Kings.
Pop open the short, stubby bottle, and spend a couple of moments appreciating that magnificent work of art. Throw head back, chug a few sips.
They don’t have toothpastes in Goa. Not the Goa I know.
Yo, Goa-brother… we head back to heaven soon, OK?

On the Road Again...

I’ve been working for a little more than a month now. Shorn of all else, work consists of getting up in the morning, reaching office, and going back at night. What hurts the most is the knowledge of that fact that there is a routine to follow. Knowing at the beginning of the day what you’re going to be doing at the end of it is, all said and done, a depressing thought.

That, and the fact that you’ve to stay cooped up in office.

Bangalore, for the past couple of weeks, has had the most fantastic weather. It’s dark and gloomy, windy and cool, and all in all, it’s Nature’s way of whispering in your ear “Oh, come on! Seriously? Inside?! On a day like this?”

Sometimes, Mother Nature can be quite a pain in the butt.

Which brings back memories of one of the most wonderful bike rides I’ve ever had.

For those of you not in the know, I happen to be the proud owner of a Yamaha RX-100. Those of you who do not know what a Yamaha RX-100 is, or what it implies, follow the instructions given below very carefully.

Widen your eyes, open your mouth so that it shapes into a little “O”, clamp hand over mouth and go “Wow!”

If that seems a little too feminine for your taste, resort to the tried and tested guy method.

Narrow your eyes and mutter an expletive.

Haan, so anyways, the point I’m trying to get across is that the Yamaha is a good bike. Very good, in fact.

In the December gone past, I had to reach a restaurant called Mainland China, located in a suburb in Bombay at 12 noon. Before that, I had to go pick a friend up from his place, which meant I had to be in Bombay by around 10. Which meant that I had to leave Pune at around six in the morning. Like all wise motorcyclists (and no, that is not an oxymoron), I gave myself an hour’s margin.

Do the math. If you do it correctly, it'll tell you that I had to leave Pune at five in the morning.

Winters in Pune are quite severe. Yes, yes, I know some of you have faced worse weather, and knowing my luck, there'll be an Eskimo reading this post and laughing his butt off, but where I come from, 5 degrees centigrade is called freezing cold, thank you very much.

So anyways, the sneaky laughs of all those doubting Thomases aside, the point to note is that it was freezing cold, and I was planning to go on a 180 kilometer drive at five in the morning.

I had worn a thick t-shirt, a sweater, a jacket, gloves, a monkey cap, a helmet, a pair of jeans, and thick socks with a pair of riding boots.

I might as well have gone stark naked.

I speak of course, from a functional viewpoint. The aesthetics of that maneuver we'll leave aside.

It was pitch dark, the roads were empty, the wind was biting, and it was bitterly, bitterly cold. I was doing no more than forty kilometers, because any faster was simply unbearable. My teeth were chattering, my hands were shivering, my privates were trying to climb into my body, convinced that I'd gone completely bonkers.

Distances were measured in terms of the time taken to go from the stale yellow light offered by one lamp-post to another. That cold comfort dissipated soon enough - a little while later, I hit the highway, leaving behind the city streets, and it got worse. There was no cover from the high-rises that populated either side of the streets; just a series of unkempt, unruly fields, marked at the edges by ragged little hedges. The wind blew, unhampered, wild and free, across the road, and swept effortlessly through my clothing. Trundling along at unaccustomed speeds, I would be overtaken every now and then by a contemptuous vehicle.

All you'd hear was a roar from the background, the feel of the onrushing vehicle, a temporary abeyance in the noise, and the slap of wind in your face as it rushed forward, impervious to you, and to the cold.

Buggers, the lot of 'em.

A little before Lonavla, there was a faint hint of light peering over the mountains -not so much the presence of day break as the painting of a lighter hue of black. Slowly but surely, we went through differing shades of grey, until, before you knew it, the sky could be seen in varying tints of orange, yellow and the faintest hue of blue, spreading ever wider.

I could go on and on about this, but you can't get the full import unless you've seen it for yourself.

By the time I'd crossed through Lonavla, it was already day-break, and I pulled over just before Duke's retreat for a cup of tea from a road side stall. The road below is the Expressway, below which lies a valley, spotted every now and then by a tiled roof, leading on to a grand view of the Sahyadris, with a freshly blued sky as the backdrop.

It was still miserly cold, and I was still shivering. The tea wasn't all that hot, and there was no food to be had.

But I've rarely felt more wonderful.

To motorcyclists the world over, aspiring or otherwise... Cheers.

I've got some coding to do now, reality beckons.

Evolution

Darwin talked about evolution and all, but I figure he got only half the story.
Men may, I accept, have evolved from apes, and the accusation has rightly been leveled about some not bothering to evolve, but I do maintain that this theory applies to men alone.
Women, they probably landed here a couple of millennia back from some far flung galaxy. They’re not the same, people, I’m telling you.
And I’ll prove it too.
Most of us, at least once in our lives (to appear intellectual and all… probably to impress that special someone) have sat in front of the telly and pretended to be interested in Nat Geo or Discovery. And if in that space of time, you’ve caught a documentary on the apes of Africa, you’ll see what I mean.
Those are the guys who’re supposed to be Windows 95, right? With we being Windows XP and all? That’s how it is supposed to have progressed (if I’ve got the right word here), no?
Haan, so now watch that program carefully. The group of monkeys wakes up in the morning, kills time by staring at each other, scratching their butts, monkeying around, until they get around to the business of the day. Gathering food. They’ll play pranks on each other, forage for food, jump on trees, scamper across the terrain, and generally raise Cain. Every now and then, Nat Geo sheds it inhibitions to show some male finally gathering the courage to go up to a female, and they go a-humping all over the scene.
Small note to guys: And in that sense, you see what I mean about whether we’ve really progressed? No first date, no coffee, no expensive meals in fancy restaurants that cost fifty million bombs. Quite literally wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am stuff, this.
Now comes the crucial part. Having done with the business of the day, which includes tending to the young, eating some grub, getting it off with some chick, they settle down for a wonderful deep slumber. All of them, in unison. No one to dispute the issue.
Now here comes the crux of my argument. Guys, see, guys do all of the above. They’ll get up, scratch their butts, forage for food, play pranks, monkey around, and come afternoon time, they’ll fall asleep.
Ladies and gentlemen, and the emphasis is on gentlemen here, have you ever known the fairer sex to sleep when you want to sleep?
No siree!
Just when you’ve finished grub on a lazy Sunday afternoon, drawn the curtains, put on some music, switched on the fan and drawn the quilt, they’ll come up with the kind of sentence that would have struck fear in the most hardened of men.
“Oh hooooney”, she’ll croon, all lemon and honey voiced, “Did you notice? There’s this woooonderful sale on at [substitute that shop in town which happens to be fartherest from where you are, along with it being crowded, expensive, pretentious… and it probably doesn’t serve beer]. Don’t you think we should be going?”
You see, guys?
I’m telling you, that’s how it panned out.
We guys were apes all along, muddling along happily. And the only reason we don’t quite look like apes now is because women have been insisting we scrub ourselves with soaps and shampoos and other ghastly instruments of torture for the last two thousand years.
I’m telling you, life suddenly becomes a lot clearer in light of this advanced theory of evolution.
Men are apes, women are aliens. Sort of like Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, but far more correct.
More on this later. It’s ten in the morning on Sunday (note Sunday), and I have to go for breakfast to some place nearby.
“Why”, do I hear you ask?
You must be a very sarcastic alien.

Tapri Time

Have you ever had Chinese food?
No, no... not that Chinese food. I mean the real thing... the tapri Chinese.
See, there's Chinese food like the way it's made in China. But they don't really know how to go about it. It's light, it's not very spicy, and horror of horrors, they don't know what American Chopsuey is. Neither do the Americans; we Indians killed two birds with one culinary stone, as it were, but we'll leave that for another day.
Real Chinese food, the way the Good Lord meant it to be, can be had on most Indian roads. So long as you are in a fairly major city in India, hop onto a bike, and drive along. Within a couple of kilometres you shall see a red, run down thela gaadi (you don't know what a thela gaadi is? Hmm. Come to India sometime. You're already in India? Hmmm. He he.), manned by a large enthusiastic guy who'll be screaming orders at small enthusiastic guys. That, people, is where Chinese food is served.
The process of making the food is more or less the same, no matter what dish you order.
Heat large wok, throw in water, clean with broom (yes, broom), heat it again, throw in oil, vegetables, spices, stir fry, add water as required if soup, add other requisite ingredients otherwise, add red coloring agent if Schezwan, more soya if Manchurian, neither if Hakka. Serve hot.
All who turned up noses may now click the cross at upper right corner of screen, thank you very much.
It doesn't matter if you're a working professional new to the city, or have been a native to the city for any number of years. It doesn't matter if you're there with a group of friends or to dine alone. It doesn't matter if you land up for a bowl of soup only, or are there to wolf down a three course meal. It'll fit all budgets, and fill all kinds of tummies with unpretentious, honest to God, spicy, scintillating stuff.
All of us have our own personal favorites, do we not, fellow taprians?
Be it the Spring Rolls, or the Hot and Sour Chicken, or the Chicken 65 (and yeah, what on EARTH does that mean? Does anybody know?), or the Triple Schezwan, or the Manchurian gravy. H2O in the mouth and all, no?
India's come to assimilate all kinds of cultures, cuisines and religions within herself, but tapri Chinese must count as one of her bigger victories.
I don't know if the following tale is apocryphal or otherwise, but it is what prompted this blog.
A friend's uncle, while on a business visit to China, had a couple too many in the evening. And then walked into the restaurant attached to the hotel.
Disdainfully waving away the menu card that was politely proffered to him, he asked the waiter to get him a plate of American Chopsuey.
The waiter, clearly at a loss, asked our man to repeat the order, which he did, rather testily.
After a hurried confrontation with the head honcho, the waiter returns to tell Uncle that "Umm, er, sorry sir, we don't serve that dish."
Deep, meaningful silence. Thoughtful rubbing of moustache. Thoughtful contemplation of bemused waiter.
The coup de grace, delivered Indian ishtyle:
"Isn't this a Chinese restaurant?"
Globalization can have it's lighter moments, no?

Coming up next: Mal Tup and all that...

Beer!

Discerning readers might have observed, if they happen to be unusually observant, that I like beer. I mean, it’s not as if I’m addicted or anything, and no one who knows me will claim I have a beer belly, but I do like the occasional glass of ale, thank you very much.
Advanced and dedicated sociological research, usually carried out in the late evenings, has shown that the pleasure to be obtained from downing glass after glass of beer is considerably heightened if the right accompaniments are around.
These include but are not necessarily limited to absence of irritating female company (Irritating Female: “Oh Rahul! MUST you burp after drinking that beer? And why do you drink so much beer anyways?!”
Irritated Male: “Sorry”
Irritated Male to Himself: “Yes, you crazy itch with a capital B, I MUST burp after drinking beer, because that’s what beer’s all about. And I drink so much beer because it keeps me from murdering you right away. And if I drink enough, oh joy, maybe I will.”
You know what I mean?)
, extremely loud music
(Long haired guy with an equally long beard, pierced eyebrows, nose, tongue, lips and God alone knows what else yelling the choicest abuses in Afrikaans while Clones 1 through 5 do the same thing while banging on fantastically loud instruments. Honestly, that’s what I think most metal rock is.)
, and warm beer
(And if the Brits like it thataway, they’re missing out on something. There’s nothing in the world that is quite as beautiful as a cold, perfectly chilled bottle of beer that has little droplets of water running down the side. And then you pop it open, and the froth gently hisses it’s way out. And then you pour it into a frosted mug, watching that firm foam forming at the top, and those pretty little bubbles rising up to the… hang on, be right back)
Haan, so to revert to the topic at hand… not that it matters much now, but I’m of the opinion that blogs should have a point.
And the point here being, beer is drunk best when it is wonderfully chilled, with buddies for company, listening to the kind of music that is guitary, gruff and great. Classic rock, if I must spell it out.
And where does one find all of this under one roof?
It’s located on Brigade Road, and ladies and gentlemen, it’s every bit as good as they said it would be.
Pecos happens to be the new love in my life.
They have three floors given over to the sole and express purpose of serving beer.
What genius, no?
There’s comfortable seating, there’s friendly waiters who grin in perfect empathy when you ask for your tenth pitcher of beer, there’s the most fantastic beef chilly that can be had as an accompaniment, and they give you a free packet of popcorn with every pitcher.
What genius, no?
And behind the bar, on the ground floor, resides a wonderfully complete collection of the kind of music that beer demands. They have classic bands from the ages, and they actually have jazz! They have Kiran, who must be the friendliest bartender in all of Bangalore, and from what I’ve seen so far, that takes some doing.
What genius, no?
Oh, and the posters! They have an entire collection, and to get the picture in it’s entirety, you must troop over to the place. But there’s one that must find mention here. It goes “Cheers to the guys from whom Michael should learn to rock”
Amen.
I’ve spent the last two weekends in a happy haze out there, and people, you know where to find me this time around too.
I know it’s reading like Pecos paid me to do this, but you’re getting it all wrong.
I’d do it for free as well.
Currently not listening to: MLTR

The Last of the Mohicans

It’s the 30th of May 2006. Captain’s log and all that.
Tomorrow, on the 31st of May, I leave Pune to go to Bangalore. I’ll be working as a Data Analyst for Genpact, and among the multitude of problems that seem to have beset my life right now, a rather prominent one is that I still have no clue about exactly what it is that I’m going to be doing.
You know the feeling, right? When someone asks you with that rather confused, rather earnest look on their face, “So… Exactly what are you going to be doing?”
At which point of course, you cough, look over the undiplomatic so-and-so’s shoulder and say “Haan, haan… coming.”
Graceful exit.
But that isn’t the focal point of this posting. The focal point of this posting is that I’m off to Bangalore, and among my buddies, I’m the last one to leave mama’s nest. Well, almost. But still and all, I’ll call myself the Last of the Mohicans.
It rained here in Pune today. Like the Dickens. Oh by the way, one more digression. Why Dickens? What’s with him and the rains?
Back when I was a really small kid, the arrival of the rains would simply mean jumping about with gay abandon on the streets, getting thoroughly wet, and coming back home to a hot bath and a plateful of mummy’s best. Thankfully, that routine hasn’t really changed over the years. What has changed is that life has added new subroutines to the program at each year.
Over time, rains came to mean ugly plastic shoes and lunch breaks with the rain pouring down. It would signify the arrival of a new scholastic year, heralding a new set of teachers, a new set of abstruse challenges in new subjects and one less year of school life to go, although we never thought of it that last way.
After that, rains meant standing in long serpentine queues to get forms that would see us being admitted to the colleges of our choice. New friends, new relationships, new crushes and a new way of life. Each of us made choices, relating to academia, friends, special someone’s that have stayed with us ever since.
But for the really lucky ones among us, it didn’t change anything else in particular. We’d still be at home, most of us, or what we’d come to call home, in the case of those who stayed in hostels. We’d live the carefree student life, learn the art of drinking, smoking, abusing, loving, hating, bunking, laughing, crying, sharing and forgiving. Life was preparing us for the shocks that it had kept in shore.
Somebody’s parents would expire, or somebody might not make it through an entrance exam that he or she had set his heart upon. Someone might leave India to go study abroad, while yet another would discover a little too late that he’d made the wrong academic choice. Somebody would fall head over heel in love only to find that Cupid had played him a horrible hand. And other such problems that beset all sorts of people in this kind of age. Life teaches only through it’s laboratories.
And then comes the time when college life would get over, as it has today. And we’ve to strike out on our own in the big bad world. Live our own life and earn our own bread. Make it on our own. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it is a little overwhelming.
College is over. The time for the kind of innocent stupidity that had become our hallmark is now gone. Or at least, that’s the new rule in town.
Heaven help society. It thinks we’ve become adults, all of us.

All About Benches

This post is all about benches.
Seriously.
There's this bench in the German Classroom, there's one on Matunga Road Railway Station, there's one on Santacruz Railway Station, there's one in a little garden on the far side of Nariman Point. In Pune, there's one near the ground in Sanewadi, there's one in the hostel... well, two actually, and there's one in the Old Library Building in the Insti.
There's nothing very special about these benches on the face of it. Fairly nondescript, a little shabby, usually with an ugly blob of paint in the middle, specifying that it has been donated to the BMC by Hasmukhlal Shah in memory of his mummy.
But what is special, very special, about these benches is that they have been the source of laughter, joy, sorrow and tears or what amounts to the same thing, wisdom. Over the years, they've given me life's little lessons, conveniently masquerading as Life's Big Issues.
They've been witnesses to discussions about love, life, philosophy, career, heartbreak, sports, beer, economics, DDLJ and other crucially important things in life. They've helped close friends become closer, and they've unwittingly aided in people drifting apart.
Some of these benches have met each other, and I've grown the richer for it. Some of them have been standalones and I'm not quite sure about whether I'm grateful for it. The memory of some evokes a nostalgic chuckle, and some others bring a tear to the eye and a lump to the throat.
And that is in the fitness of things, because after all, in each life, some rain must fall.
All in all though, over the last so many years, I've managed to get a petty decent sized chunk of benches coming my way, and I'm thankful for it.
For a non-bench life is a pretty sad thing.
Here's hoping that all my readers and especially my friends have had their share of benches, for life is poorer without them.

And miles to go before I sleep...

Today, dear reader, is the 21st of May. As you can verify by looking up the date at the top left of this posting. The point of stating the obvious is that in 10 days, I shall leave what has come to be home to go to a new city, where I shall toil unceasingly and make my living. Yes, unceasingly.
They tell me HR guys read blogs, you see.
And leaving home is never an easy thing. This city has been my home for the last twenty four years, and it is a fantastic place. And over that time span, I've come to know this city like the back of my hand.
I know where to get Chinese food at midnight, and where to get breakfast at three in the morning. I know where the bootleggers stay, and I know where to get rare imported wines. I know the finest restaurants - the ones that set you back by a couple of grand for a meal of two, and I know the places where you can have a meal for less than fifty bucks.
I know spots where you can take a bottle of beer at two in the morning, sit and look over the whole city. I know spots where you can go at five in the morning, and watch the city come to life.
I know people who are doyens of industry, and I know academicians who I'm in complete awe of.
I know old timers who regale me with stories of how they bombed theatres during the British Raj, and I know new comers from other parts of the world who can't begin to figure out the city.
I know the old part of town, the one that has existed since the 12th century, and I know the outskirts of the city, those parts that make Pune the vibrant upstart metropolis that it has become today.
I know how rude the shopkeepers can be, and I know how exasperating it is to see them downing their shutters in the afternoon. I also know how they have, for as long as anybody can remember, come up with a quality that has not faltered even once. I know the leafy quiet lanes in Deccan Gymkhana that go to sleep in the afternoon, and I know the chaos that Tilak Road turns into in the evening.
I know the utter chaotic joy that Fergusson Road turns into on weekends, as do I know the chaos that is Chor Bazaar on Wednesdays. I know the tekdis, Vetaal and Hanuman, as do I know Khadakvasla and Mulshi. Throw in Peacock Bay for good measure.
I've experienced the exhilaration of the wind at Konkan Kada on Sinhagad, as have I known the simple joy of the slightly sour curds in an earthern pot. And yes, the Zunka Bhakar. And the water from Dev Taaki.
The Steak burger at Burger King, and the Beef Roll at Nayab. The Steak Cordon Bleu at Touche, and the Drunken Chicken at Zamu's. The pastries at German Bakery and the biryani at Cafe Good Luck. I've been there to bid a fond farewell to Lucky's, may god bless its soul. Misal at Bedekar's and KheeKa at Shri's. And I've been around long enough to know that Shri's is an insult to the old timers. Fine, have it your way... Appa's it is.
Indore Farsan Samosas and Joshi Wadewaale. Rupaali and Vaishali on Fergusson Road and the cold coffee at Durga. Canal Road Pani Puri and Mann Dairy Lassi. How many of you remember the chowpaty at University Circle. How many of you aren't confused at University Cirlce being called University Circle? Sandwiches at Marzorin and Chole Bhature at Mona Foods. Diamond Bar on M G Road and Apache on F C Road. Muttonacha Rassa at Nagpur near Tilak Road and the thali at Shreyas. Baakarwadi at Chitale's and the Shrewsbury from Kayaani's.
Foodie? Who, me?
Taking a walk in Fergusson in the evening, or going for a drive upto NDA. The climb up Parvati. The drive upto Mulshi, and the lake at Manas. The drive up to Lonavla. Those new and welcome additions, E-Square and Inox. Although Alka and Vijay retain their 25 bucks a ticket charm.
Chai outside Shivajinagar at three in the morning and Pav Bhaji at Sadhu Vaswani Chowk at one in the morning. Comesum at all hours of the day, and far more importantly, night. Booze Patel, may the Good Lord bless him. And who can forget (wink, wink) Pyaasa? The cigarette tapri on JM Road and Mal Tap at Khadki.
There are so many things to write about for the nonce, no?
Non-Punekars, please excuse, or even better, come explore.
Me Puneri.

The Time Has Come, The Walrus Said...

It's going to be twice as introspective as the last one, and by that measure, depending on your viewpoint, half as much fun.
It is also going to be fairly esoteric, because I'm going to write about whatever catches my fancy. Which means that one day I'll come up with psalms dedicated to Cafe Good Luck, while the next will see an abstruse piece on Sartre. Although I hope not... I'm not too big on Sartre.
I hope to write about Pune, because out of the fairly limited repertoire of things I consider myself knowledgeable about, I don't think I like anything quite as much as I like Pune.
I also hope to write about Bangalore, because of the number of pubs it has. About people I've known, about thoughts I have (most of them way too convoluted for public consumption, but that's your problem, not mine), about humour (for there is no art requiring more skill), about philosophy (Yup. You read that right), and essentially, about anything that I think writeable.
It's a brand new ride, and I hope it turns out to be fun.
I was talking about me.
You do your own hoping.