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.