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.