Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Genesis
Have you ever embarked on an adventure that seems like an adventure to you, but folly to the rest of the planet?
Something that seemed like fun to do where you were concerned - sure, a tad risky, a tad unsafe, but fun nonetheless - but insanely idiotic to everybody else.
They'd sound dire warnings, and they'd cajole and curse, and yell and scream, and throw their hands up in despair.
They'd quiz you about the practicality of your plan and shoot it down. That whole other jazz... you know. Common sense.
But you'd still go ahead and do it. Because.
And halfway through that madcap scheme, when there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and the world looked dreary and dark and bleak, and it seemed as if those guys were right after all, and you were not - right then, you'd wonder whether you should turn back.
And just when your shoulders drooped, and your head hung low, out would pop the impish grin.
"Balls!" you would say with a manic laugh. "I'm gonna do this! Hah!"
Kulkarni lives for those moments. That's his raison d'etre.
And a little outside of Dhavengere, when the cold wind blew effortlessly through the calcium in his bones, and the road rode roughshod underneath his steed's newly shod rubber, and when he took the bike to the side of the road and did a series of little jumps to keep himself awake - that's when Kulkarni had his Magic Moment.
Because who else would choose to ride a 100c bike from Bangalore to Pune in the last week of December? Voluntarily, that too.
Who else would be standing on the shoulder of the roughest patch of NH-4, at 1 at night, hopping from one foot to the other in a bid to keep himself awake?
Me!
It hadn't seemed such a bad idea when the planning was underway. Leave at two in the afternoon, ride hard until midnight, sleep at a lodge. Ten hours at an average of fifty kilometers to the hour - and that's more than half the journey done.
I should be in Pune by around two in the afternoon, easy as pie.
I had, as I mentioned earlier, a newly furbished Yamaha, fitted from head to toe with new genuine spare parts. It shone and it glittered. It had a refurbished headlamp assembly, new spokes, new shockers, new speedo, new cables, new wiring, new tires, new levers, a new seat, new gas filled shockers at the back, a new carb, a new air filter, a new tail lamp assembly, a new fuel-cock, a new spark plug, a new fuel tank and an old chassis.
And an old me.
The bike was delivered to me, sparkling bright and ready to go, at 11 in the morning. All I had to do was show up at work, do no work, and leave by two in the afternoon.
At one thirty in the afternoon, I realized that I had no gloves, and no woollen cap. In December, with night riding involved, somewhat necessary accessories.
At two in the afternoon, a colleague requested that he be dropped home, else he would miss his flight.
And at two thirty, I was stuck in a traffic jam, en route to said colleague's home.
At five, I was done with shopping for said articles.
And at six thirty, I was finally outside Bangalore city, on NH-4.
850 kilometers to go, plus around four hours of sleep. So say 22 hours or so.
Here we go now. Hang on, me dearies.
:)
Something that seemed like fun to do where you were concerned - sure, a tad risky, a tad unsafe, but fun nonetheless - but insanely idiotic to everybody else.
They'd sound dire warnings, and they'd cajole and curse, and yell and scream, and throw their hands up in despair.
They'd quiz you about the practicality of your plan and shoot it down. That whole other jazz... you know. Common sense.
But you'd still go ahead and do it. Because.
And halfway through that madcap scheme, when there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and the world looked dreary and dark and bleak, and it seemed as if those guys were right after all, and you were not - right then, you'd wonder whether you should turn back.
And just when your shoulders drooped, and your head hung low, out would pop the impish grin.
"Balls!" you would say with a manic laugh. "I'm gonna do this! Hah!"
Kulkarni lives for those moments. That's his raison d'etre.
And a little outside of Dhavengere, when the cold wind blew effortlessly through the calcium in his bones, and the road rode roughshod underneath his steed's newly shod rubber, and when he took the bike to the side of the road and did a series of little jumps to keep himself awake - that's when Kulkarni had his Magic Moment.
Because who else would choose to ride a 100c bike from Bangalore to Pune in the last week of December? Voluntarily, that too.
Who else would be standing on the shoulder of the roughest patch of NH-4, at 1 at night, hopping from one foot to the other in a bid to keep himself awake?
Me!
It hadn't seemed such a bad idea when the planning was underway. Leave at two in the afternoon, ride hard until midnight, sleep at a lodge. Ten hours at an average of fifty kilometers to the hour - and that's more than half the journey done.
I should be in Pune by around two in the afternoon, easy as pie.
I had, as I mentioned earlier, a newly furbished Yamaha, fitted from head to toe with new genuine spare parts. It shone and it glittered. It had a refurbished headlamp assembly, new spokes, new shockers, new speedo, new cables, new wiring, new tires, new levers, a new seat, new gas filled shockers at the back, a new carb, a new air filter, a new tail lamp assembly, a new fuel-cock, a new spark plug, a new fuel tank and an old chassis.
And an old me.
The bike was delivered to me, sparkling bright and ready to go, at 11 in the morning. All I had to do was show up at work, do no work, and leave by two in the afternoon.
At one thirty in the afternoon, I realized that I had no gloves, and no woollen cap. In December, with night riding involved, somewhat necessary accessories.
At two in the afternoon, a colleague requested that he be dropped home, else he would miss his flight.
And at two thirty, I was stuck in a traffic jam, en route to said colleague's home.
At five, I was done with shopping for said articles.
And at six thirty, I was finally outside Bangalore city, on NH-4.
850 kilometers to go, plus around four hours of sleep. So say 22 hours or so.
Here we go now. Hang on, me dearies.
:)
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Because It Seemed Like A Good Idea
Almost a year ago, exactly to the day.
22nd of December, 2006.
On a bike that had been recently refurbished, head to toe.
Recently being 22nd of December, 2006, 11 a.m.
Through a bitterly cold winter night.
On a highway that is not really much of anything.
A ride that took me all of twenty six hours.
Including six hours of shivering in a blanket at a A1 Reliance Petrol Pump.
An engine that seized up twice, oil that needed topping up twice, a fuel tank that was met a fuel nozzle five times in one day.
A bike that ran out of fuel, a lunch that took nearly two hours, Punekar truckers who played Good Samaritans and a bike ride that was a bike ride.
Kulkarni rode to Pune on the 22nd of December, 2006 - and what follows will tell you how.
:)
----------------
Now playing: Hootie and the Blowfish - Let Her Cry
via FoxyTunes
22nd of December, 2006.
On a bike that had been recently refurbished, head to toe.
Recently being 22nd of December, 2006, 11 a.m.
Through a bitterly cold winter night.
On a highway that is not really much of anything.
A ride that took me all of twenty six hours.
Including six hours of shivering in a blanket at a A1 Reliance Petrol Pump.
An engine that seized up twice, oil that needed topping up twice, a fuel tank that was met a fuel nozzle five times in one day.
A bike that ran out of fuel, a lunch that took nearly two hours, Punekar truckers who played Good Samaritans and a bike ride that was a bike ride.
Kulkarni rode to Pune on the 22nd of December, 2006 - and what follows will tell you how.
:)
----------------
Now playing: Hootie and the Blowfish - Let Her Cry
via FoxyTunes
Saturday, December 15, 2007
For Ninety Minutes
Brothers will no longer be brothers.
Bonds that have lasted years will be broken.
Choice abuses will traverse oceans, and ill will will be in the air.
Events and circumstances that will make one wince in pain will make the other dance with joy.
8000 miles away, two brothers will, for the duration of ninety minutes, not be brothers.
And when the skies have cleared and the sun shines through again, one of us will call the other and laugh hysterically. And the other will suffer in silence.
And after those crucial ninety minutes, we will be brothers in arms again.
After Man. Utd. thrash Liverpool's sorry ass, that is.
There will be an opinion to the contrary in the comments below soon enough, but you know how it is with those Liverpudlians. Now what to do?
:)
Bonds that have lasted years will be broken.
Choice abuses will traverse oceans, and ill will will be in the air.
Events and circumstances that will make one wince in pain will make the other dance with joy.
8000 miles away, two brothers will, for the duration of ninety minutes, not be brothers.
And when the skies have cleared and the sun shines through again, one of us will call the other and laugh hysterically. And the other will suffer in silence.
And after those crucial ninety minutes, we will be brothers in arms again.
After Man. Utd. thrash Liverpool's sorry ass, that is.
There will be an opinion to the contrary in the comments below soon enough, but you know how it is with those Liverpudlians. Now what to do?
:)
Thursday, December 13, 2007
C'est La Vie. Sometimes.
I have late breakfasts.
I listen to Kishore Kumar songs.
I read a book - start to finish - in one day.
I watch a football game in the evening.
And I'm asleep by 11.
On Saturday.
Kulkarni wishes to defend himself. In dignified tones he addresses the multitude who howl at him in disgust. He does not stoop to such civilized acts every weekend.
No sirree.
Even today, Kulkarni goes to Pecos for the express purpose of having breakfast and comes back home at eight in the night.
Even today, Kulkarni rides through the night to reach Pune to attend a wedding in Jalgaon.
Even today, Kulkarni can drink through the night - and every now and then, Kulkarni does so.
But there are weekends when Kulkarni likes nothing more than to wake up at 10 in the morning, have a heavy breakfast, lie in bed with a nice thick book. And c'est tout.
When I get bored of the usual excitements in my life.
Yeah, it happens. To all of us. Eventually.
I've got a coupla grey hairs on my head. And like it or not, so do you.
And contrary to the voiceferous opinions of the many wise-asses who pretend to be bosom buddies, I have more than one colour of hair on my pate.
Hah.
I listen to Kishore Kumar songs.
I read a book - start to finish - in one day.
I watch a football game in the evening.
And I'm asleep by 11.
On Saturday.
Kulkarni wishes to defend himself. In dignified tones he addresses the multitude who howl at him in disgust. He does not stoop to such civilized acts every weekend.
No sirree.
Even today, Kulkarni goes to Pecos for the express purpose of having breakfast and comes back home at eight in the night.
Even today, Kulkarni rides through the night to reach Pune to attend a wedding in Jalgaon.
Even today, Kulkarni can drink through the night - and every now and then, Kulkarni does so.
But there are weekends when Kulkarni likes nothing more than to wake up at 10 in the morning, have a heavy breakfast, lie in bed with a nice thick book. And c'est tout.
When I get bored of the usual excitements in my life.
Yeah, it happens. To all of us. Eventually.
I've got a coupla grey hairs on my head. And like it or not, so do you.
And contrary to the voiceferous opinions of the many wise-asses who pretend to be bosom buddies, I have more than one colour of hair on my pate.
Hah.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Wearing 'em down
I left my yellow slippers back in Boston.
I didn't want to - they'd grown nice and comfortable - but there was no room in the bags. Gifts and daaru bottles and clothes and books took precedence.
But I wish I had my old yellow slippers.
Because you know how it is with slippers, right? When you buy them, they're not very pliant. Tough and uncomfortable, they pinch your feet and don't bend when you walk.
Over time, as you wear them everyday, they grow a little softer. Your weight (and in my case, that is no understatement) wears down the hard edges and the slippers develop little grooves around the shape of your feet. The slipper becomes a little soft, a little old, and a little more comfortable.
Eventually, your slipper can be worn only by you. The grooves become pronounced, and they fit closely and snugly around your feet. They become your slippers. And you know that this will happen.
But as with all good things, that takes time. And in the case of slippers, you have to wait a good couple of months.
So as I said, I wish I had not left my old yellow slippers back in Boston. I had them for over a year and a half, and they'd become mine.
I have new ones now, and I have a couple of months to go.
Before my slippers become mine.
I didn't want to - they'd grown nice and comfortable - but there was no room in the bags. Gifts and daaru bottles and clothes and books took precedence.
But I wish I had my old yellow slippers.
Because you know how it is with slippers, right? When you buy them, they're not very pliant. Tough and uncomfortable, they pinch your feet and don't bend when you walk.
Over time, as you wear them everyday, they grow a little softer. Your weight (and in my case, that is no understatement) wears down the hard edges and the slippers develop little grooves around the shape of your feet. The slipper becomes a little soft, a little old, and a little more comfortable.
Eventually, your slipper can be worn only by you. The grooves become pronounced, and they fit closely and snugly around your feet. They become your slippers. And you know that this will happen.
But as with all good things, that takes time. And in the case of slippers, you have to wait a good couple of months.
So as I said, I wish I had not left my old yellow slippers back in Boston. I had them for over a year and a half, and they'd become mine.
I have new ones now, and I have a couple of months to go.
Before my slippers become mine.
Friday, November 30, 2007
A Theist! I'm A Theist!
Really, I am one now.
And you would be one too, if you got to hear about this.
Kulkarni has always maintained - and loyal readers and dear friends will be well aware of this - that drinking beer is a religious experience.
It elevates and it enlightens. It educates and it ennobles.
That it also makes you happy is a positive side effect that proves the benevolence of the Almighty One above.
But above all, the act of drinking beer is a holy, spiritual experience.
And what brings the beatific smile to the face is that fact that there are people on this planet who think making beer is a holy spiritual experience as well.
Talk about symbiosis.
To all you Belgian monks with vows of silence and mugs of ale - a reverent round of cheers.
:)
And you would be one too, if you got to hear about this.
Kulkarni has always maintained - and loyal readers and dear friends will be well aware of this - that drinking beer is a religious experience.
It elevates and it enlightens. It educates and it ennobles.
That it also makes you happy is a positive side effect that proves the benevolence of the Almighty One above.
But above all, the act of drinking beer is a holy, spiritual experience.
And what brings the beatific smile to the face is that fact that there are people on this planet who think making beer is a holy spiritual experience as well.
Talk about symbiosis.
To all you Belgian monks with vows of silence and mugs of ale - a reverent round of cheers.
:)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Back where I belong
The blog's back in Bangalore, ladies and ledas, and both the blog and the blogger are bhaery pleased about it.
A warm welcome to bhaisaab - brother's blogging, and he be here. Also, to reiterate: he be.
Gentle prods to other brothers who have become the lazy slugs they are - yes, I mean you, and I mean you.
Not that self is particularly active at the best of times, but it feels nice to be pointing fingers.
Haan, so anyways - Bangalore.
Which will mean more tales of Pecos, more tales of bike rides, and more tales in general.
Promise.
Home sweet home.
:)
A warm welcome to bhaisaab - brother's blogging, and he be here. Also, to reiterate: he be.
Gentle prods to other brothers who have become the lazy slugs they are - yes, I mean you, and I mean you.
Not that self is particularly active at the best of times, but it feels nice to be pointing fingers.
Haan, so anyways - Bangalore.
Which will mean more tales of Pecos, more tales of bike rides, and more tales in general.
Promise.
Home sweet home.
:)
Monday, November 12, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Heaven
I don't know if I've mentioned this before on these pages - I get the sneaky suspicion that I might have - but I happen to love my home town.
Pune.
And of the six billion nut-cases currently inhabiting the third rock from the sun, I happen to be of the blessed minority that has finished college in Pune.
Which, apart from Good Luck, Durga, Burger King and college itself, has meant one other thing.
:)
Ungaal. Tell, tell?
Down Fergusson College Road, a little ahead of Vaishali, a little before Fergusson Main Gate.
Loud music and air-conditioners that refuse to work.
A TV that plays nothing in particular.
Waiters dressed up in red shirts and black trousers.
Tall chairs, blue table tops and the Last Supper - Hollywood ishtyle.
Beer.
The clinking of the glassses and cheers.
Pearl Jam and Metallica. Radiohead and Iron Maiden. Headbanging and potato chips that we wish would have been cheaper.
Pink Floyd and Aerosmith. Du Hast and Nirvana. Another Barman's pitcher and to hell with the month end.
Crowded tables and crowded chairs. Waiting lists. Friday nights and metal.
Chicken fingers and another pitcher. Friends at adjoining tables and raised glasses. Smiles and nods. High fives and more beer.
Head banging. Beer. More head banging. More beer.
Saturday night.
College.
Apache.
And I may have a job today, and I may not be in Pune.
But Fergusson College road, a little ahead of Vaishali and a little before Fergusson College Main Gate.
Apache.
We'll be back, brothers. With raised glasses and Pink Floyd for company, starting at 7 p.m. sharp.
Apache.
Cheers.
Pune.
And of the six billion nut-cases currently inhabiting the third rock from the sun, I happen to be of the blessed minority that has finished college in Pune.
Which, apart from Good Luck, Durga, Burger King and college itself, has meant one other thing.
:)
Ungaal. Tell, tell?
Down Fergusson College Road, a little ahead of Vaishali, a little before Fergusson Main Gate.
Loud music and air-conditioners that refuse to work.
A TV that plays nothing in particular.
Waiters dressed up in red shirts and black trousers.
Tall chairs, blue table tops and the Last Supper - Hollywood ishtyle.
Beer.
The clinking of the glassses and cheers.
Pearl Jam and Metallica. Radiohead and Iron Maiden. Headbanging and potato chips that we wish would have been cheaper.
Pink Floyd and Aerosmith. Du Hast and Nirvana. Another Barman's pitcher and to hell with the month end.
Crowded tables and crowded chairs. Waiting lists. Friday nights and metal.
Chicken fingers and another pitcher. Friends at adjoining tables and raised glasses. Smiles and nods. High fives and more beer.
Head banging. Beer. More head banging. More beer.
Saturday night.
College.
Apache.
And I may have a job today, and I may not be in Pune.
But Fergusson College road, a little ahead of Vaishali and a little before Fergusson College Main Gate.
Apache.
We'll be back, brothers. With raised glasses and Pink Floyd for company, starting at 7 p.m. sharp.
Apache.
Cheers.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Blogging Boston - 10
Summing up time. :)
Hah.
That alone calls for a party.
No, but seriously. There were some good points as well.
Going for long walks along Boston's roads was fun. You get to spot some really good cars and bikes, the roads are emptier, the gardens are gardens, and the skyline looks prettier.
But what's my point?
The steaks are awesome. A thick juicy Angus steak, juices oozing out, fries on the side and a side salad. With Caesar dressing. Umm, umm.
But what's my point?
The babes. Long legs, pretty faces, hourglass figures and ready smiles. Unapproachable as ever, but brilliant to look at.
I wish I had a point.
Corona beer is too cool. Get down a couple of bottles with a wedge of lime for company and life is so good.
I have pints.
The Boston Public Library. I don't care if that makes me a nerd. I wish that was in Bangalore. Actually, if I'm wishing, I wish the library and I were in Pune.
That's my point.
So yeah, all that goes under the asset column.
Liabilities?
It ain't home.
So listening to: Sloop John B
Jai Hind!
Hah.
That alone calls for a party.
No, but seriously. There were some good points as well.
Going for long walks along Boston's roads was fun. You get to spot some really good cars and bikes, the roads are emptier, the gardens are gardens, and the skyline looks prettier.
But what's my point?
The steaks are awesome. A thick juicy Angus steak, juices oozing out, fries on the side and a side salad. With Caesar dressing. Umm, umm.
But what's my point?
The babes. Long legs, pretty faces, hourglass figures and ready smiles. Unapproachable as ever, but brilliant to look at.
I wish I had a point.
Corona beer is too cool. Get down a couple of bottles with a wedge of lime for company and life is so good.
I have pints.
The Boston Public Library. I don't care if that makes me a nerd. I wish that was in Bangalore. Actually, if I'm wishing, I wish the library and I were in Pune.
That's my point.
So yeah, all that goes under the asset column.
Liabilities?
It ain't home.
So listening to: Sloop John B
Jai Hind!
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Blogging Boston - 9
It's raining - a lot.
It's cold - like you wouldn't believe.
It's windy - Boston is at the very outer fringe of Hurricane Noel (hee hee hee. I thought that happened a couple of weekends back.)
So Kulkarni is at home today.
Ergo, expect to see quite a few posts up.
The first one of which is about air hostesses.
Now, this is the first time fledgling Kulkarni has left the shores of his native country and gone to strange and foreign lands.
So in his experience, air hostesses are limited to the domestic variety.
You know, those unbelievable bombshells who look thoroughly unapproachable on ground?
Long legs that make lamp posts look like twigs, derrières whose sculpting was outsourced to Michaelangelo, busts that you can't take your eyes off, and faces that can launch a thousand airplanes.
Yeah, those ones. Go on, take a couple of seconds to close your eyes and do the visualizing.
Done? OK.
And so the one time that Kulkarni did fly out of his home territory, he was practically salivating at the prospect. 14 hours in an airplane with foreign maal. What's to not like?
But. Arre but.
News flash to all my brethren who are living in India and flying in the domestic version of paradise. If you think that all things phoren are better than all things domestic, and if you think that clones of Claudia Schiffer are going to be at your beck and call on international flights.
Then think again.
Because, most likely, Claudia's granny will be on that damn flight, smiling at you in a matronly manner, clucking away about what she's going to serve you for dinner.
But. Arre but.
Why would you do that? Why would you recruit your air hostesses, and that too for the long haul flights, from the Bagalwaali Aunty Aviation School? Why not from the Check That Chick Out! Aviation School?
More experience? Screw that. I don't care if my food is cold and I get the red wine with the fish.
No hot chicks abroad? Balls. Who're the people on all those videos we download from the internet then. Huh?
Cost cutting? Hmmm.
Yeah, most probably. Makes sense. The head honcho probably recruits one hottie for his office, and sends over the members of the Paleozoic Union to staff the airplanes. That's how I'd do it too.
But worry not, all you desi techies of currently morose disposition. Kulkarni the Genius has a solution.
Why not outsource desi air hostesses? Hain, hain?
I and a couple of friends I know are so willing to take on the onerous task of running that business. Interested VC's may please approach us any time of the day or night.
We're waiting.
Mallya Uncle. Listen no. Think about it. Pliss.
It's cold - like you wouldn't believe.
It's windy - Boston is at the very outer fringe of Hurricane Noel (hee hee hee. I thought that happened a couple of weekends back.)
So Kulkarni is at home today.
Ergo, expect to see quite a few posts up.
The first one of which is about air hostesses.
Now, this is the first time fledgling Kulkarni has left the shores of his native country and gone to strange and foreign lands.
So in his experience, air hostesses are limited to the domestic variety.
You know, those unbelievable bombshells who look thoroughly unapproachable on ground?
Long legs that make lamp posts look like twigs, derrières whose sculpting was outsourced to Michaelangelo, busts that you can't take your eyes off, and faces that can launch a thousand airplanes.
Yeah, those ones. Go on, take a couple of seconds to close your eyes and do the visualizing.
Done? OK.
And so the one time that Kulkarni did fly out of his home territory, he was practically salivating at the prospect. 14 hours in an airplane with foreign maal. What's to not like?
But. Arre but.
News flash to all my brethren who are living in India and flying in the domestic version of paradise. If you think that all things phoren are better than all things domestic, and if you think that clones of Claudia Schiffer are going to be at your beck and call on international flights.
Then think again.
Because, most likely, Claudia's granny will be on that damn flight, smiling at you in a matronly manner, clucking away about what she's going to serve you for dinner.
But. Arre but.
Why would you do that? Why would you recruit your air hostesses, and that too for the long haul flights, from the Bagalwaali Aunty Aviation School? Why not from the Check That Chick Out! Aviation School?
More experience? Screw that. I don't care if my food is cold and I get the red wine with the fish.
No hot chicks abroad? Balls. Who're the people on all those videos we download from the internet then. Huh?
Cost cutting? Hmmm.
Yeah, most probably. Makes sense. The head honcho probably recruits one hottie for his office, and sends over the members of the Paleozoic Union to staff the airplanes. That's how I'd do it too.
But worry not, all you desi techies of currently morose disposition. Kulkarni the Genius has a solution.
Why not outsource desi air hostesses? Hain, hain?
I and a couple of friends I know are so willing to take on the onerous task of running that business. Interested VC's may please approach us any time of the day or night.
We're waiting.
Mallya Uncle. Listen no. Think about it. Pliss.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Blogging Boston - 8
As dawn meets darkness over the cusp of the mountain top, a car shall fly over dull grey tarmac.
Slowly, one by one, kilometers will be eaten up and Bombay shall recede. The ghats will be climbed, and Lonavala will be thrown behind.
The air will get cooler, and MH-12 number plates will appear.
And then the Expressway will get over, and I will be on NH-4. Hoardings advertising flats will spring up and fall back in the rear-view mirror.
Pot-bellied cops in white and brown (with jhatang goggles) will be spotted at important junctions, and I might step out and hug them.
And out in the distance, far to my left, resplendent in the early morning light, will come into view the city of Pune.
Not long after, I will meet family, and eat breakfast at Roopali.
Soon, ladies and gentlemen, I will blog Boston no more.
Soon.
Slowly, one by one, kilometers will be eaten up and Bombay shall recede. The ghats will be climbed, and Lonavala will be thrown behind.
The air will get cooler, and MH-12 number plates will appear.
And then the Expressway will get over, and I will be on NH-4. Hoardings advertising flats will spring up and fall back in the rear-view mirror.
Pot-bellied cops in white and brown (with jhatang goggles) will be spotted at important junctions, and I might step out and hug them.
And out in the distance, far to my left, resplendent in the early morning light, will come into view the city of Pune.
Not long after, I will meet family, and eat breakfast at Roopali.
Soon, ladies and gentlemen, I will blog Boston no more.
Soon.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Yet Another Tingu Kahaani
The party was on in full swing - people were still milling around the bar.
It was a family gathering - they were celebrating an engagement in the family. Aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins and grandparents. Everybody was around.
The doors to the garden had been opened, and people were everywhere. There was talk, laughter, warmth and smiles. It was a good place to be, and there was a good time to be had.
She had enjoyed herself thoroughly, talking to folks she hadn't met in ages, catching up with her cousins, and after a couple of drinks, she was feeling pretty darn good.
She got a call just then, and she excused herself. Talking on the phone, she wandered through the house, moving away from the noise.
The call over, she was walking back when she noticed the small child.
The child was sitting in a little room down a small corridor. It was a small study, done up in beige, with soft muted lighting. There was an old bookshelf in one corner, dark teakwood, piled high and rather untidily with old books, magazines and journals. There was a handsome desk near the wall, with papers scattered all over it, and a swivel chair next to it. Off to the side, there was a small settee, on which the child was sitting.
She (the child) was pretty young - around six years old - with short hair, a cherubic face, and a pretty little dress. Her legs were swinging a little off the floor, and she was sitting there, chin in hand. There was a serious expression on her face, and she was staring at the chair.
The girl stopped. She looked a while at the girl, not quite knowing what to do.
Eventually, she went and sat next to the girl.
"Hi!", she said brightly.
The child moved her head slightly. Nodded at the girl and went back to staring at the chair.
"I don't think I know you", said the girl "Are you looking for your mommy?"
"No", said the child, without taking her eyes off the chair, "She's outside. In the garden"
"Oh", said the girl, smiling, "So are you playing hide and seek? Why are you waiting here like this?"
The child smiled. She looked up at the girl and leaned forward conspiratorially.
"I'd come to this house last week", she said, in a whisper, "And Mommy and Aunty were sitting in this room and talking about Grandpa. And Aunty said, sometimes, she can still see Grandpa sitting in that chair."
The child looked at the chair and back at the young girl.
"Grandpa promised me he'd finish our story," the little child said, "So I'm going to wait here until he comes."
And the little child crossed her legs, and continued staring at the chair.
It was a family gathering - they were celebrating an engagement in the family. Aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, cousins and grandparents. Everybody was around.
The doors to the garden had been opened, and people were everywhere. There was talk, laughter, warmth and smiles. It was a good place to be, and there was a good time to be had.
She had enjoyed herself thoroughly, talking to folks she hadn't met in ages, catching up with her cousins, and after a couple of drinks, she was feeling pretty darn good.
She got a call just then, and she excused herself. Talking on the phone, she wandered through the house, moving away from the noise.
The call over, she was walking back when she noticed the small child.
The child was sitting in a little room down a small corridor. It was a small study, done up in beige, with soft muted lighting. There was an old bookshelf in one corner, dark teakwood, piled high and rather untidily with old books, magazines and journals. There was a handsome desk near the wall, with papers scattered all over it, and a swivel chair next to it. Off to the side, there was a small settee, on which the child was sitting.
She (the child) was pretty young - around six years old - with short hair, a cherubic face, and a pretty little dress. Her legs were swinging a little off the floor, and she was sitting there, chin in hand. There was a serious expression on her face, and she was staring at the chair.
The girl stopped. She looked a while at the girl, not quite knowing what to do.
Eventually, she went and sat next to the girl.
"Hi!", she said brightly.
The child moved her head slightly. Nodded at the girl and went back to staring at the chair.
"I don't think I know you", said the girl "Are you looking for your mommy?"
"No", said the child, without taking her eyes off the chair, "She's outside. In the garden"
"Oh", said the girl, smiling, "So are you playing hide and seek? Why are you waiting here like this?"
The child smiled. She looked up at the girl and leaned forward conspiratorially.
"I'd come to this house last week", she said, in a whisper, "And Mommy and Aunty were sitting in this room and talking about Grandpa. And Aunty said, sometimes, she can still see Grandpa sitting in that chair."
The child looked at the chair and back at the young girl.
"Grandpa promised me he'd finish our story," the little child said, "So I'm going to wait here until he comes."
And the little child crossed her legs, and continued staring at the chair.
Monday, October 22, 2007
One Upon. The Inversion. Revelation.
Kaisa no? That flash of insight on a lazy Monday afternoon?
There you are, headphones on ears, listening to streaming radio and not doing that amazingly interesting chart with the squiggly lines that will count as your next project.
There you are, Wikipedia and varied blog sites open in front of you.
Not reading 'em, not doing your job, and janrally whiling away the hours.
When the flash strikes.
The slouch goes, the hairs stand on end and you get that brand new insight into your life.
Which is when Kulkarni starts typing out the new blog. And if you're reading this on a lazy afternoon when you wish the wiggly lines would go and stuff themselves in their homes, you'll thank me for this.
You're welcome.
No but seriously. Dawdling, dilly-dallying apart. Spiritual revelation has just tingled the undersigned's spine.
And what caused the tingling was this:
Anish and Noel (two biraadar log, and that's all you need to know if you don't know who they are) had come over here for the weekend.
And in that proud, time-honoured tradition that seems to define my closest buddies - we did two days of nothing.
And on Monday - we're all back to vacuum. Waiting for the next weekend when people of our tribe meet, beer consumption goes up, Knopfler and people of his ilk strum in the background, and nothing happens.
And that time too will fade away, and we'll hug each other and say good bye, and slip into our Monday afternoons, waiting for that next magical time.
Arre but! Bhaisaab Phancy Dress!
What a bloody waste of time no! How can we be doing this to ourselves - bright, intelligent peoples like us? So many years to realise this seemple leetle insight?
Chya!
What on earth are we doing in far flung corners of the planet - slaving away on cool little laptops to draw squiggly lines that we know are total crap? Or designing chips, or figuring out default rates, or managing some company's accounts systems or whatever.
Pretending to like it for five days of the week so that a magical mystical oasis of a weekend can arrive?
Invert the damn thing, I say.
Apply our formidable intelligence, I say, to figuring out a way to stick in one corner of the planet - and there are no prizes for guessing which corner is being referred to - and make every day a weekend.
Figure out a business where the squiggly lines make sense.
Because they're made by us.
C'maaaaaaaaaaaan.
Let me know if you have a light bulb above your heads.
I'll be waiting in a far flung corner of the planet, drawing squiggly lines.
Pretty plis now. A treat at Pecos for the first viable idea.
There you are, headphones on ears, listening to streaming radio and not doing that amazingly interesting chart with the squiggly lines that will count as your next project.
There you are, Wikipedia and varied blog sites open in front of you.
Not reading 'em, not doing your job, and janrally whiling away the hours.
When the flash strikes.
The slouch goes, the hairs stand on end and you get that brand new insight into your life.
Which is when Kulkarni starts typing out the new blog. And if you're reading this on a lazy afternoon when you wish the wiggly lines would go and stuff themselves in their homes, you'll thank me for this.
You're welcome.
No but seriously. Dawdling, dilly-dallying apart. Spiritual revelation has just tingled the undersigned's spine.
And what caused the tingling was this:
Anish and Noel (two biraadar log, and that's all you need to know if you don't know who they are) had come over here for the weekend.
And in that proud, time-honoured tradition that seems to define my closest buddies - we did two days of nothing.
And on Monday - we're all back to vacuum. Waiting for the next weekend when people of our tribe meet, beer consumption goes up, Knopfler and people of his ilk strum in the background, and nothing happens.
And that time too will fade away, and we'll hug each other and say good bye, and slip into our Monday afternoons, waiting for that next magical time.
Arre but! Bhaisaab Phancy Dress!
What a bloody waste of time no! How can we be doing this to ourselves - bright, intelligent peoples like us? So many years to realise this seemple leetle insight?
Chya!
What on earth are we doing in far flung corners of the planet - slaving away on cool little laptops to draw squiggly lines that we know are total crap? Or designing chips, or figuring out default rates, or managing some company's accounts systems or whatever.
Pretending to like it for five days of the week so that a magical mystical oasis of a weekend can arrive?
Invert the damn thing, I say.
Apply our formidable intelligence, I say, to figuring out a way to stick in one corner of the planet - and there are no prizes for guessing which corner is being referred to - and make every day a weekend.
Figure out a business where the squiggly lines make sense.
Because they're made by us.
C'maaaaaaaaaaaan.
Let me know if you have a light bulb above your heads.
I'll be waiting in a far flung corner of the planet, drawing squiggly lines.
Pretty plis now. A treat at Pecos for the first viable idea.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Keschuns.
All through my infancy,
And right through childhood,
I read without wondering,
And life was good.
Books of children's adventures
The entire ouevre by Blyton,
All that a child was supposed to read,
I devoured by the literal ton.
School passed by, as did some college,
And I read through all those years
Every kind and every genre,
Page by page, hour by hour
And then one fine day I read,
Without knowing what would happen,
Pirsig's classic - that fine opus,
And lo! the curse was upon us!
For since that fateful day,
Kulkarni started to wonder
And think, while he read -
He'd started to live on more than bread
And questions popped into his head
Answers refused resolutely to enter,
Unbidden the former and unseen the latter,
While Kulkarni went as Mad as a Hatter
Deeply he would think,
With much scratching of the head
But no farther would he get,
Than from where he started
Sartre and Rand, and Spinoza and Russell
Kant, Descartes and Hume
Occidental and Oriental,
Our man was all philosophical
And he'd think about math,
Riemann and Mandelbrot
Bolyai and Newton,
Einstein and Sagan
On and on, in never ending circles
Think and wonder, muse and ponder,
For hours on end, for whole weeks together
Of Questions many, and Answers Infiniter
And then one fine day he gave up,
He said "I don't know the Answer,
Hell, I've no clue about the Question!
42 might as well be the number."
And now the Questions are still there,
And even today, Answers there are none,
But Kulkarni's at peace,
He's become a total Epicurean
The day will come, he is well aware,
When the garb must come off,
There will be a day of awakening,
He will hearken the Sirens who sing,
But till that day of Judgment comes,
Kulkarni lives in peace,
He questions not his philosophy,
Which reads like this:
From the earliest beginnings,
Out to the furtherest ends,
There is nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter, and the love of friends.
The last para ain't by me - the rest of it is.
Blame me not for this - blame it on the man - he awakens slumbering memories of "Questions".
Cheers, brother - and here's to some Epicureangiri in November.
And right through childhood,
I read without wondering,
And life was good.
Books of children's adventures
The entire ouevre by Blyton,
All that a child was supposed to read,
I devoured by the literal ton.
School passed by, as did some college,
And I read through all those years
Every kind and every genre,
Page by page, hour by hour
And then one fine day I read,
Without knowing what would happen,
Pirsig's classic - that fine opus,
And lo! the curse was upon us!
For since that fateful day,
Kulkarni started to wonder
And think, while he read -
He'd started to live on more than bread
And questions popped into his head
Answers refused resolutely to enter,
Unbidden the former and unseen the latter,
While Kulkarni went as Mad as a Hatter
Deeply he would think,
With much scratching of the head
But no farther would he get,
Than from where he started
Sartre and Rand, and Spinoza and Russell
Kant, Descartes and Hume
Occidental and Oriental,
Our man was all philosophical
And he'd think about math,
Riemann and Mandelbrot
Bolyai and Newton,
Einstein and Sagan
On and on, in never ending circles
Think and wonder, muse and ponder,
For hours on end, for whole weeks together
Of Questions many, and Answers Infiniter
And then one fine day he gave up,
He said "I don't know the Answer,
Hell, I've no clue about the Question!
42 might as well be the number."
And now the Questions are still there,
And even today, Answers there are none,
But Kulkarni's at peace,
He's become a total Epicurean
The day will come, he is well aware,
When the garb must come off,
There will be a day of awakening,
He will hearken the Sirens who sing,
But till that day of Judgment comes,
Kulkarni lives in peace,
He questions not his philosophy,
Which reads like this:
From the earliest beginnings,
Out to the furtherest ends,
There is nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter, and the love of friends.
The last para ain't by me - the rest of it is.
Blame me not for this - blame it on the man - he awakens slumbering memories of "Questions".
Cheers, brother - and here's to some Epicureangiri in November.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
So Not Blogging Boston
It's seven in the morning here - and I have been up with the proverbial lark.
Not been doing much of anything, doddering around here, and doddering around there. Drinking tea, watching the sun come up, reading stuff on the Net, and generally killing time.
And at moments like these, when the world is a-slumbering and you have a hot cuppa in your hands, you dream and you wonder, you ponder and you reminisce.
And pray bear with me, gentle reader, while I indulge in some of the above.
It's cold here in Boston, not the brrrrrr! shiver! kind of cold, but - well, bracing. You'd want to pull a sweater on early in the morning and remove it at around nine - that kind of cold.
And so you think of sunlit dawns back in Pune, when the sun is peeping over the buildings, and there is a chill in the air. When you breathe out, you blow little white puffs of air - and so you do that, repeatedly. Secretly delighting in that simple act, much as a small child would.
Shoes and thick white socks, blue jeans and a white sweater, and you're up and ready to go.
You walk out onto the streets and those lovely old people greet you.
Grandmothers wrapped up in button-me-down sweaters, wrinkled faces and crinkled smiles, warm eyes surrounded by spectacles and a blue scarf tied around their faces, trundling along on their morning round. Old Grandpas, wearing black trousers and a collared t-shirt, with a sleeveless sweater drawn over it, a polished stick (purchased in Mahabaleshwar) swinging along in one hand.
Bikes pass you every now and then, footballers, badminton players, cricketers and what-have-you's either returning from their morning workouts or heading for them. Cheery greetings abound across generations as Punekars wake up to another chilly day in November.
And out at the beginning of Fergusson Road, Pune congregates.
There sits on that road a little restaurant with a modest facade. A little fence separates it from the footpath, and some tables are crammed into the seating area on the outside. To the left sits the cashier, and on the right are the chairs that are occupied by the people who haven't yet been assigned a table.
The waiters are dressed up in white, and the boys who clean up the plates are dressed in blue shirts and shorts - both teams are paragons of efficieny. They move around and between tables, juggling orders and requests, serving and clearing innumerable plates and glasses, bowls and spoons.
The patrons make a ruckus, and the place is never quiet - everywhere there are people talking to each other, hailing each other across tables, talking loudly and generally making bedlam.
So you sit on your chair, and ignore the proffered menu - of course, if you are a true regular, you won't even be offered one.
Me, I start with the Kanda Mirchi Utthappa with a small bowl of white chutney by the side, and sambar as it should be.
Next, I have the Wada Sambar - mix, of course.
Finally, as dictated by law, that culinary concoction, that pride of Pune, the best filter coffee served anywhere on the planet.
It sits there on your table in a little white cup - with a little white saucer for company.
Frothy foam at the top, and wafts of that lingering heady aroma emerge from it.
To all the Punekars reading this - you can smell it right now, now can't you?
And so you rise, satiated, from the table, and head out into the world outside, to do whatever it is that you have to.
But ladies and gentlemen, there is no better way to start the day.
Than with breakfast at Roopali.
Amen.
Not been doing much of anything, doddering around here, and doddering around there. Drinking tea, watching the sun come up, reading stuff on the Net, and generally killing time.
And at moments like these, when the world is a-slumbering and you have a hot cuppa in your hands, you dream and you wonder, you ponder and you reminisce.
And pray bear with me, gentle reader, while I indulge in some of the above.
It's cold here in Boston, not the brrrrrr! shiver! kind of cold, but - well, bracing. You'd want to pull a sweater on early in the morning and remove it at around nine - that kind of cold.
And so you think of sunlit dawns back in Pune, when the sun is peeping over the buildings, and there is a chill in the air. When you breathe out, you blow little white puffs of air - and so you do that, repeatedly. Secretly delighting in that simple act, much as a small child would.
Shoes and thick white socks, blue jeans and a white sweater, and you're up and ready to go.
You walk out onto the streets and those lovely old people greet you.
Grandmothers wrapped up in button-me-down sweaters, wrinkled faces and crinkled smiles, warm eyes surrounded by spectacles and a blue scarf tied around their faces, trundling along on their morning round. Old Grandpas, wearing black trousers and a collared t-shirt, with a sleeveless sweater drawn over it, a polished stick (purchased in Mahabaleshwar) swinging along in one hand.
Bikes pass you every now and then, footballers, badminton players, cricketers and what-have-you's either returning from their morning workouts or heading for them. Cheery greetings abound across generations as Punekars wake up to another chilly day in November.
And out at the beginning of Fergusson Road, Pune congregates.
There sits on that road a little restaurant with a modest facade. A little fence separates it from the footpath, and some tables are crammed into the seating area on the outside. To the left sits the cashier, and on the right are the chairs that are occupied by the people who haven't yet been assigned a table.
The waiters are dressed up in white, and the boys who clean up the plates are dressed in blue shirts and shorts - both teams are paragons of efficieny. They move around and between tables, juggling orders and requests, serving and clearing innumerable plates and glasses, bowls and spoons.
The patrons make a ruckus, and the place is never quiet - everywhere there are people talking to each other, hailing each other across tables, talking loudly and generally making bedlam.
So you sit on your chair, and ignore the proffered menu - of course, if you are a true regular, you won't even be offered one.
Me, I start with the Kanda Mirchi Utthappa with a small bowl of white chutney by the side, and sambar as it should be.
Next, I have the Wada Sambar - mix, of course.
Finally, as dictated by law, that culinary concoction, that pride of Pune, the best filter coffee served anywhere on the planet.
It sits there on your table in a little white cup - with a little white saucer for company.
Frothy foam at the top, and wafts of that lingering heady aroma emerge from it.
To all the Punekars reading this - you can smell it right now, now can't you?
And so you rise, satiated, from the table, and head out into the world outside, to do whatever it is that you have to.
But ladies and gentlemen, there is no better way to start the day.
Than with breakfast at Roopali.
Amen.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Blogging Boston - 7
Portland, OR.
As the world sees it:
http://wikitravel.org/en/Portland_(Oregon)
As I see it:
Airport - Binoy's car.
Loud dhinchak hindi moojhik.
Sultans of Swing.
Good roads, conversation.
Lunch. Thai Restaurant.
Conversation.
Binoy's office. Binoy's office has a gym.
Football.
Binoy's car. Conversation. Home.
Beer. More conversation. Beer.
Binoy's house. Roommate.
Dinner. Belly Dancer.
Beer. Drambuie. Beer. Beer.
Home. Late night. Talking. More talking. Beer. Talking. Beer. Beer. Talking.
Sleep.
Binoy's car. Drive. Breakfast. Drive. Long drive. Talking. Music. Quiet. Drive.
Foosball. Pool. Backslapping. High Fives.
Aunty's food. Mutton and roti. Pickles.
Chicken and Dal. Rice and Ghee. Pickles.
Reverence.
Bliss.
Beer. More talking.
Drive. Foosball. Pool. Table Tennis.
Drive.
Sleep.
Food, laughter. Slumber.
It was a good trip. I know not what Portland is all about, but I couldn't be happier.
My present is as my past was.
:)
P.S. Both of us really miss Kingfisher.
As the world sees it:
http://wikitravel.org/en/Portland_(Oregon)
As I see it:
Airport - Binoy's car.
Loud dhinchak hindi moojhik.
Sultans of Swing.
Good roads, conversation.
Lunch. Thai Restaurant.
Conversation.
Binoy's office. Binoy's office has a gym.
Football.
Binoy's car. Conversation. Home.
Beer. More conversation. Beer.
Binoy's house. Roommate.
Dinner. Belly Dancer.
Beer. Drambuie. Beer. Beer.
Home. Late night. Talking. More talking. Beer. Talking. Beer. Beer. Talking.
Sleep.
Binoy's car. Drive. Breakfast. Drive. Long drive. Talking. Music. Quiet. Drive.
Foosball. Pool. Backslapping. High Fives.
Aunty's food. Mutton and roti. Pickles.
Chicken and Dal. Rice and Ghee. Pickles.
Reverence.
Bliss.
Beer. More talking.
Drive. Foosball. Pool. Table Tennis.
Drive.
Sleep.
Food, laughter. Slumber.
It was a good trip. I know not what Portland is all about, but I couldn't be happier.
My present is as my past was.
:)
P.S. Both of us really miss Kingfisher.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Hamlet's Soliloquy Explained
In a remote place, far removed,
Somewhere in the mountains, way up high,
Sat the Master and his young eager disciple,
And the days passed slowly by.
Meditate they did for hours on end,
And nary a word was said,
Peace and silence reigned supreme in the morning,
And until 'twas time for bed.
Calmness and serenity was on the Master's face,
But the student was of the fidgety kind,
The Master knew all there was to know;
Unrest was on the other's mind.
Of this the Master was well aware,
And he waited for the time to come by,
When the vow of silence would be broken,
And he'd get a How, a When, a What, or a Why.
And sure enough, early one morning,
(For that is when the brain's at it's best)
The student cleared his throat,
He'd decided to put the Guru through a test.
"O Master!", said the student,
Softly and hesitatingly,
"I hope you will not mind too much -
But I have a question to ask of thee"
The Master sighed and shrugged his shoulders,
"Sure, go ahead", said he,
"Spare me the melodrama though -
Try to not say stuff like thee"
"Oh!", the student said,
For he was a little surprised,
But he readjusted his speech,
And quickly got into stride.
"Well then, what I've been thinking about,
All this time I've been here with thee...
O sorry! With you, I mean...
Is - What is my destiny?
"I mean, what is my calling in life,
What should I become, what will I be,
What is my purpose, and well, generally -
Um, y'know - what is my destiny?"
"Well, you are what you are, you know,
Or alternatively - Tat Tvam Asi,
And that in Sanskrit is like saying
Be what you wanna be!'
"So if you wanna be a singer - sing!
For that is then your destiny
And if you wanna be a dancer - dance!
And so on and so forth, y'see?"
"That is all very well, O Master",
Said the student, a little doubtfully,
"But in my case, personally,
You see, I just want to be!"
"To transcend this mortal world,
To live a peaceful life carefree,
To attain what they call Nirvana,
I really just want to be."
"To be one with the cosmos,
To experience the One, the Unity,
To be a Zen Master like you, O Master,
I really just want to be!"
The Master sighed again, for a long time.
Looked at the young one exasperatedly.
"Oh well... if you still don't get it -
Now listen, and listen carefully!"
"If you wanna sing, you're a singer,
And if you wanna dance, you're a dancer" said He.
"And if you wanna teach, you're a teacher,
And if you wanna write, you're a writer - you get me?"
"And going by that logic,
If I understand you here,
The answer is truly clear,
If you just wanna be - be a beer!"
Somewhere in the mountains, way up high,
Sat the Master and his young eager disciple,
And the days passed slowly by.
Meditate they did for hours on end,
And nary a word was said,
Peace and silence reigned supreme in the morning,
And until 'twas time for bed.
Calmness and serenity was on the Master's face,
But the student was of the fidgety kind,
The Master knew all there was to know;
Unrest was on the other's mind.
Of this the Master was well aware,
And he waited for the time to come by,
When the vow of silence would be broken,
And he'd get a How, a When, a What, or a Why.
And sure enough, early one morning,
(For that is when the brain's at it's best)
The student cleared his throat,
He'd decided to put the Guru through a test.
"O Master!", said the student,
Softly and hesitatingly,
"I hope you will not mind too much -
But I have a question to ask of thee"
The Master sighed and shrugged his shoulders,
"Sure, go ahead", said he,
"Spare me the melodrama though -
Try to not say stuff like thee"
"Oh!", the student said,
For he was a little surprised,
But he readjusted his speech,
And quickly got into stride.
"Well then, what I've been thinking about,
All this time I've been here with thee...
O sorry! With you, I mean...
Is - What is my destiny?
"I mean, what is my calling in life,
What should I become, what will I be,
What is my purpose, and well, generally -
Um, y'know - what is my destiny?"
"Well, you are what you are, you know,
Or alternatively - Tat Tvam Asi,
And that in Sanskrit is like saying
Be what you wanna be!'
"So if you wanna be a singer - sing!
For that is then your destiny
And if you wanna be a dancer - dance!
And so on and so forth, y'see?"
"That is all very well, O Master",
Said the student, a little doubtfully,
"But in my case, personally,
You see, I just want to be!"
"To transcend this mortal world,
To live a peaceful life carefree,
To attain what they call Nirvana,
I really just want to be."
"To be one with the cosmos,
To experience the One, the Unity,
To be a Zen Master like you, O Master,
I really just want to be!"
The Master sighed again, for a long time.
Looked at the young one exasperatedly.
"Oh well... if you still don't get it -
Now listen, and listen carefully!"
"If you wanna sing, you're a singer,
And if you wanna dance, you're a dancer" said He.
"And if you wanna teach, you're a teacher,
And if you wanna write, you're a writer - you get me?"
"And going by that logic,
If I understand you here,
The answer is truly clear,
If you just wanna be - be a beer!"
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Blogging Boston - 6
Namastes all round, and apologies about the delay in updates. Kulkarni swears by all that is holy that it is simply because there was nothing to write about.
I mean, yeah - we went to museums, and to tall buildings, and all that. Floppy hats on our ears, and cameras around our necks - pointing this way and that, and oohing and aahing all over the place.
But is that stuff that you, my good friends, would want to hear about?
About Bunker Hill and the Boston Public Library, and Newbury Street and the Prudential Center?
I mean, c'maaan.
These here pages ain't about the Hitchhiker's Guide to Boston. This is about Kulkarni in Boston, and hilarious tales in the making.
Trouble being, Kulkarni hasn't had the chance to pull his stunts.
You can't get drunk and drive - that's 90% of the stories out the window, right there.
You can't go to Pecos in Boston - you can go to other pubs, and that's no bad thing, but they ain't Pecos. You can't ride to other parts of America on a bike. So what, dear peoples, is undersigned supposed to do?
The beer is good, by the way - and the steaks are to die for.
But that about sums it up.
But, intrepid travellers of the blogosphere, and regular readers of my blog - fear not. Worry not, and want not for good wholesome (depending on your point of view) story telling.
Kulkarni, this weekend, sets forth on his merry way. He gets his large cumbersome frame to wedge into a teeny tiny economy seat, and sits wrapped up there for hours on end.
And at the end of that long, tiresome journey awaits the pride of the psuedo Mallu clan, Binoy Oommen.
Biraadar and self shall then, over the course of the next three days, laze around with a vengeance.
On the menu are very many bottles of beer, much lazing around, much talking, and once the beer sets in, many keedas. Oh, and very many bottles of beer.
That there be the plan, and it has a very resounding stamp of approval from both parties.
Ah, the lazing around. Ah, the beer.
Ah, same thing.
Three days to go now.
P.S. Binoy Oommen, if the freezer is empty, you are a dead man.
I mean, yeah - we went to museums, and to tall buildings, and all that. Floppy hats on our ears, and cameras around our necks - pointing this way and that, and oohing and aahing all over the place.
But is that stuff that you, my good friends, would want to hear about?
About Bunker Hill and the Boston Public Library, and Newbury Street and the Prudential Center?
I mean, c'maaan.
These here pages ain't about the Hitchhiker's Guide to Boston. This is about Kulkarni in Boston, and hilarious tales in the making.
Trouble being, Kulkarni hasn't had the chance to pull his stunts.
You can't get drunk and drive - that's 90% of the stories out the window, right there.
You can't go to Pecos in Boston - you can go to other pubs, and that's no bad thing, but they ain't Pecos. You can't ride to other parts of America on a bike. So what, dear peoples, is undersigned supposed to do?
The beer is good, by the way - and the steaks are to die for.
But that about sums it up.
But, intrepid travellers of the blogosphere, and regular readers of my blog - fear not. Worry not, and want not for good wholesome (depending on your point of view) story telling.
Kulkarni, this weekend, sets forth on his merry way. He gets his large cumbersome frame to wedge into a teeny tiny economy seat, and sits wrapped up there for hours on end.
And at the end of that long, tiresome journey awaits the pride of the psuedo Mallu clan, Binoy Oommen.
Biraadar and self shall then, over the course of the next three days, laze around with a vengeance.
On the menu are very many bottles of beer, much lazing around, much talking, and once the beer sets in, many keedas. Oh, and very many bottles of beer.
That there be the plan, and it has a very resounding stamp of approval from both parties.
Ah, the lazing around. Ah, the beer.
Ah, same thing.
Three days to go now.
P.S. Binoy Oommen, if the freezer is empty, you are a dead man.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Blogging Boston - 5
Amreekan food ain't bad - not bad at all.
Kulkarni is a simple man. I mean, I know, most men are simple enough to begin with, but even on that elementary scale, he ranks pretty low.
Or high. Depends on how you look at it.
Give him a bike, some beer, some good food, and he's happy.
And his definition of good food is meat. If the plate in front of him has meat, that's good enough.
Chicken, beef, mutton, lamb, pork, fish - whatever - as long as some animal somewhere has breathed it's last, that's good enough for yours truly.
And which is why America is good stuff.
Every restaurant that you step into gives you puzzled looks if you ask for vegetarian stuff. Not, in case you are unusually dense, a strategy that Kulkarni will employ. But they will have steaks, and they will have chops. Rolls and sandwiches, burgers and pizzas. And in case you are rich, the starters and the hors d'oeuvres . All meat.
Succulent, tasty, honest to goodness stuff that warms your soul and satiates your tummy. Especially with this nip in the air - make no mistake, yours truly is enjoying the food.
But the Good Lord above - he giveth and he taketh away. He giveth the food, and he giveth to Binoy Oommen his mummy.
Who, some 3000 miles away, feeds her beta her culinary wizardry.
And bhaisaab, being the true considerate brother that he is, calls up everyday.
And describes, in exquisitely excruciating detail, every little bit of every single morsel that lies on his plate.
And laughs evilly while I salivate to death.
So yeah. I like the steaks and I likes the meats.
But now what to do?
They ain't better than mutton curry, Kerala ishtyle.
Like I said, He giveth, and He taketh away.
Umm, Aunty... have you seen Boston? SUCH a beautiful city, I tell you na!
Really.
Kulkarni is a simple man. I mean, I know, most men are simple enough to begin with, but even on that elementary scale, he ranks pretty low.
Or high. Depends on how you look at it.
Give him a bike, some beer, some good food, and he's happy.
And his definition of good food is meat. If the plate in front of him has meat, that's good enough.
Chicken, beef, mutton, lamb, pork, fish - whatever - as long as some animal somewhere has breathed it's last, that's good enough for yours truly.
And which is why America is good stuff.
Every restaurant that you step into gives you puzzled looks if you ask for vegetarian stuff. Not, in case you are unusually dense, a strategy that Kulkarni will employ. But they will have steaks, and they will have chops. Rolls and sandwiches, burgers and pizzas. And in case you are rich, the starters and the hors d'oeuvres . All meat.
Succulent, tasty, honest to goodness stuff that warms your soul and satiates your tummy. Especially with this nip in the air - make no mistake, yours truly is enjoying the food.
But the Good Lord above - he giveth and he taketh away. He giveth the food, and he giveth to Binoy Oommen his mummy.
Who, some 3000 miles away, feeds her beta her culinary wizardry.
And bhaisaab, being the true considerate brother that he is, calls up everyday.
And describes, in exquisitely excruciating detail, every little bit of every single morsel that lies on his plate.
And laughs evilly while I salivate to death.
So yeah. I like the steaks and I likes the meats.
But now what to do?
They ain't better than mutton curry, Kerala ishtyle.
Like I said, He giveth, and He taketh away.
Umm, Aunty... have you seen Boston? SUCH a beautiful city, I tell you na!
Really.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Blogging Boston - 4
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha!
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha
Kulkarni, dear readers, has been slightly unlucky in the Lady Luck department where the Ladies are concerned. Even a casual reader in the blogosphere, happening to glance in while strolling the bylanes of this world, would discern remarkably quickly that Kulkarni is single.
And this ill fortune follows Kulkarni where ever Kulkarni goes.
Rather like Mary's lamb, only a lot more irritating.
He climbs onto a bus, all ready for a long journey sitting right next to a beautiful long haired, doe-eyed damsel, and gets to sit next to a seventy year old grandpa who snores through the journey. Halfway through said journey, grandpa proceeds to rest his bald pate on young Kulkarni's shoulder.
Kulkarni comforts himself with the thought that at journey's end will wait beautiful granddaughter, who shall thank Kulkarni, through her grateful tears, and Kulkarni shall carelessly acknowledge said thanks.
Granny greets grandpa at journey's end, and grunts in Kulkarni's direction, when the unbelievably heavy trunk is finally hoisted onto the roof of the unbelievably old Fiat.
Your author, though, dear friends, is made of stern stuff. In spite of the many trials, tribulations, and terrors that the fates have thrown at him over the many years, he has not wavered in his beliefs. One day, he has told himself, there will come the dainty, doe-eyed damsel who will deliver Kulkarni from the fetters of bachelorhood. Purely by chance shall he meet this wondrous angel, and a romance will bloom.
It might not happen today, but it will on the morrow, he has told himself - as his fond dreams have been wrecked on the rocky shores of many a bus-stop, railway station, new apartment, new classrooms and what-have-you's.
And as of today, dear readers, Venus finally unbent and showered her thus-far ignored son with candy floss lo-oo-ve.
Eight in the morning. Office scheduled to begin at, what else, eight.
Young Sir Lancelot, having hurriedly gotten himself ready, is rushing out of the door.
The door closed, he fumbles with the key in his pocket, impatiently cursing himself for his tardiness.
The door next to this anxious hurried scene swings open.
Breathless pause.
Roll of drums.
Expectant hush.
And out steps Miss Bombshell.
Lovely long blond hair that falls in curvy heaps over petite pretty shoulders. Pretty blue eyes that light up an angelic face. Cherry red lips that curve into a beatific smile.
And oh yes, a figure that would have had Coke springing for copyright infringement.
Kulkarni stares.
Angel stares back. Angel pauses and angel smiles. Up in the heavens, Beethoven gets to work on the piano.
Kulkarni clears throat. Fits jaw back in place. From deep within, a thoroughly startled neuron system galvanises itself and asks brain what to do. Brain, having turned to jelly at first reported sighting of angel, is clueless.
Angel says, brightly, "Hello! Good morning!"
Kulkarni says, allegedly," Ghdertymderweffds"
Clearing his throat again, and putting body and soul into the effort, Kulkarni gives it another shot.
"Good Morning!"
(There. Loud and clear. Focus on what she is saying. Do not stare. Well, ok, stare a little. Huh?)
"Huh?"
"I said, I'm your neighbour. My name's Kylie."
Spotting proferred hand in the nick of time, Kulkarni adjusts his motor and shakes it. Fortunately, his palms haven't had the time to get sweaty.
Angel smiles again.
"You must be new here - aren't you?"
"Yes, barely a week old."
Angel starts to move away, Beethoven uncle gives it up as a bad job and slows down on the pedal.
"Well, let me know if you need any help", she says, pirouetting her dainty way to the lift.
Beethoven gets right down it, belting out one hit after another.
And after she has gone, Kulkarni pirouettes to the lift himself, grinning from ear to ear.
If Kulkarni needs help, Kulkarni is to contact the angel.
Tomorrow, Kulkarni's dishwasher is going to die a mysterious, unlamented death.
Like I was saying:
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha!
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha!
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha
Kulkarni, dear readers, has been slightly unlucky in the Lady Luck department where the Ladies are concerned. Even a casual reader in the blogosphere, happening to glance in while strolling the bylanes of this world, would discern remarkably quickly that Kulkarni is single.
And this ill fortune follows Kulkarni where ever Kulkarni goes.
Rather like Mary's lamb, only a lot more irritating.
He climbs onto a bus, all ready for a long journey sitting right next to a beautiful long haired, doe-eyed damsel, and gets to sit next to a seventy year old grandpa who snores through the journey. Halfway through said journey, grandpa proceeds to rest his bald pate on young Kulkarni's shoulder.
Kulkarni comforts himself with the thought that at journey's end will wait beautiful granddaughter, who shall thank Kulkarni, through her grateful tears, and Kulkarni shall carelessly acknowledge said thanks.
Granny greets grandpa at journey's end, and grunts in Kulkarni's direction, when the unbelievably heavy trunk is finally hoisted onto the roof of the unbelievably old Fiat.
Your author, though, dear friends, is made of stern stuff. In spite of the many trials, tribulations, and terrors that the fates have thrown at him over the many years, he has not wavered in his beliefs. One day, he has told himself, there will come the dainty, doe-eyed damsel who will deliver Kulkarni from the fetters of bachelorhood. Purely by chance shall he meet this wondrous angel, and a romance will bloom.
It might not happen today, but it will on the morrow, he has told himself - as his fond dreams have been wrecked on the rocky shores of many a bus-stop, railway station, new apartment, new classrooms and what-have-you's.
And as of today, dear readers, Venus finally unbent and showered her thus-far ignored son with candy floss lo-oo-ve.
Eight in the morning. Office scheduled to begin at, what else, eight.
Young Sir Lancelot, having hurriedly gotten himself ready, is rushing out of the door.
The door closed, he fumbles with the key in his pocket, impatiently cursing himself for his tardiness.
The door next to this anxious hurried scene swings open.
Breathless pause.
Roll of drums.
Expectant hush.
And out steps Miss Bombshell.
Lovely long blond hair that falls in curvy heaps over petite pretty shoulders. Pretty blue eyes that light up an angelic face. Cherry red lips that curve into a beatific smile.
And oh yes, a figure that would have had Coke springing for copyright infringement.
Kulkarni stares.
Angel stares back. Angel pauses and angel smiles. Up in the heavens, Beethoven gets to work on the piano.
Kulkarni clears throat. Fits jaw back in place. From deep within, a thoroughly startled neuron system galvanises itself and asks brain what to do. Brain, having turned to jelly at first reported sighting of angel, is clueless.
Angel says, brightly, "Hello! Good morning!"
Kulkarni says, allegedly," Ghdertymderweffds"
Clearing his throat again, and putting body and soul into the effort, Kulkarni gives it another shot.
"Good Morning!"
(There. Loud and clear. Focus on what she is saying. Do not stare. Well, ok, stare a little. Huh?)
"Huh?"
"I said, I'm your neighbour. My name's Kylie."
Spotting proferred hand in the nick of time, Kulkarni adjusts his motor and shakes it. Fortunately, his palms haven't had the time to get sweaty.
Angel smiles again.
"You must be new here - aren't you?"
"Yes, barely a week old."
Angel starts to move away, Beethoven uncle gives it up as a bad job and slows down on the pedal.
"Well, let me know if you need any help", she says, pirouetting her dainty way to the lift.
Beethoven gets right down it, belting out one hit after another.
And after she has gone, Kulkarni pirouettes to the lift himself, grinning from ear to ear.
If Kulkarni needs help, Kulkarni is to contact the angel.
Tomorrow, Kulkarni's dishwasher is going to die a mysterious, unlamented death.
Like I was saying:
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha,
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha!
A-one-two-cha-cha-cha
Sunday, September 16, 2007
My Life
It's a 1995 standard Bullet, black in colour, parked on the shoulder.There is a helmet hung on to the right rear view mirror - another helmet rests on the carrier at the rear.
There is a bag kept near the bike, propped up against the rear wheel.
It's a hot day - not hot enough to be uncomfortable, but sunny nonetheless.
There is a slight wind at the back, and an azure sky stretching out over the horizon. Clouds dot the panaroma, some grey, mostly white.
There is no traffic on the road, either on this side or the other.
The bike is parked in the middle of nowhere - miles to go before I reach, and miles away from where I started.
There is a coconut seller on the side of the road, which is why the bike is parked there - we're taking a break.
Soon, she'll be kick started, and she'll answer with a roar that'll settle into a steady thump.
The miles that separate me from my destination will be eaten up, and there she'll stay in repose until she's kick started again.
But for now, there's miles to go, and there's many miles been travelled.
She's at home right now.
The Bullet is on the road.
:-)
And I wish I was too.
Blogging Boston - 3
Good ol' Tom.
I stay on the sixth floor of a pretty nice apartment here in Boston, overlooking the Boston Harbour. Across the road that is right in front of my window lies an expanse of water that separates Logan Airport from Boston City. Boats, schooners, yachts and launches dot the harbour, making their leisurely way from shore to shore.
Once I'm back from work, and from walking around Boston city - and that is a very nice thing to do, walk around Boston city - there is pretty much nothing to do at home. There are no roommates to chat with, and while you can speak to the folks back home, there is an inevitable feeling of loneliness.
So far, it isn't depressing - but still, you end up wishing that there was someone you could talk to.
So more often than not, I kick back with a novel and a glass of juice, and read the book, and look out the window. And enjoy the solitude.
Also, on the TV that is in the apartment, these is this channel that plays classic rock through the day. There are no advertisements, there are no jockeys, there is no programme. One song plays after the other, ad inifnitum.
Naturally, that channel is on pretty much all the time out here.
And so the other day, in the evening, while I was reading Broca's Brain, by Carl Sagan, and drinking my juice, and looking out the window here in Boston, that channel played "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin. It's a Brit band that has some truly memorable hits.
And naturally enough all that Kulkarni could think of was a little hole in the wall just off Brigade Road, back home in Bangalore.
:)
An Indian, here in Boston, MA, USA, while listening to a Brit band called Led Zeppelin, is reminded of a pub back in Bangalore.
Good ol' Tom Friedman seems to have hit the nail on the head, no?
I stay on the sixth floor of a pretty nice apartment here in Boston, overlooking the Boston Harbour. Across the road that is right in front of my window lies an expanse of water that separates Logan Airport from Boston City. Boats, schooners, yachts and launches dot the harbour, making their leisurely way from shore to shore.
Once I'm back from work, and from walking around Boston city - and that is a very nice thing to do, walk around Boston city - there is pretty much nothing to do at home. There are no roommates to chat with, and while you can speak to the folks back home, there is an inevitable feeling of loneliness.
So far, it isn't depressing - but still, you end up wishing that there was someone you could talk to.
So more often than not, I kick back with a novel and a glass of juice, and read the book, and look out the window. And enjoy the solitude.
Also, on the TV that is in the apartment, these is this channel that plays classic rock through the day. There are no advertisements, there are no jockeys, there is no programme. One song plays after the other, ad inifnitum.
Naturally, that channel is on pretty much all the time out here.
And so the other day, in the evening, while I was reading Broca's Brain, by Carl Sagan, and drinking my juice, and looking out the window here in Boston, that channel played "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin. It's a Brit band that has some truly memorable hits.
And naturally enough all that Kulkarni could think of was a little hole in the wall just off Brigade Road, back home in Bangalore.
:)
An Indian, here in Boston, MA, USA, while listening to a Brit band called Led Zeppelin, is reminded of a pub back in Bangalore.
Good ol' Tom Friedman seems to have hit the nail on the head, no?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Blogging Boston - 2
Shopping: The act of purchasing articles from shops.
Shopping in India: Dialling nearest shopkeeper to have items delivered home.
Shopping in America: The exquisitely painful process of having ones back broken, wrists sprained, and spirit trod upon. When done with friends: hilarious.
Americans are nuts. Plain kooky.
They have, and I am not making this up, half fat, quarter fat, half and half, skimmed, low fat, medium fat, flavored, soy, semi skimmed, quarter skimmed and three quarters skimmed.
They do not have milk.
Now, fair peoples from the rest of the planet, hear this.
These blessed geniuses from the land of plenty, have this amount of mind boggling variety in over a thousand different commodities.
All located under one gargantuan roof.
Oh, and in case you are sitting back in your chairs with a smug smile on your faces thinking "Ah hah! Kulkarni is on his first visit to Walmart!" - well, umm, no.
This was a food store.
Perfectly reliable, sober and sane sources inform me that larger stores, such as Walmart, would have twice this size in food alone - and about twenty other departments, again - under one roof.
Nuts. Plain kooky.
And I'll tell you why, dear readers.
Because when Kulkarni is given a cart and told to go shop, he will rely on the little list that mummy has given him. Faithfully following to the letter the items neatly numbered on the list, Kulkarni will shop, and get back to mummy all the items that mummy wanted.
Kulkarni will then fall flat on the sofa, until mummy wakes him up for dinner.
This on the rare occasions when the phone call wala system does not work.
But here, in the land of the ridiculously plenty, Kulkarni with a shopping cart is flummoxed. Flabbergasted. Foiled. And other alliterative words that may not be used on nice pages like these.
How to choose one out of a hundred - all of which look equally good. How to not walk about drooling like Dracula at a ball? How to not pick all of the meats available?
Tell, tell?
Which is why Kulkarni walked out of there with four different bags, all bursting with goodies that would have made Claus (he of the Santa fame) look positively pedestrian.
And then Kulkarni fumbled again.
Because in America, he does not have a bike, or a car, or even a rickshaw that he can hail.
He has a taxi that will strip him of all the money that he has, and he has a subway that is more confusing than a Ph.D. in Operations Research.
So Kulkarni, and colleagues (bless 'em!) decide to take the subway.
So there we were, Kulkarni and colleagues, all of us suitably loaded with goodies, standing at the platform, waiting for the train to trundle in.
Info: If you want to cross platforms, you climb onto train, head over to next station, and then change platforms. Because if on the same station, you come out on one side, and into the other, you pay double.
Nuts. Kooky.
So we got into train so that we may get out the other side.
More Info: When in train, hold onto railings. Else, when train starts, and stops, like Newton uncle said, you will fall over each other, repeatedly. Of course, given the number of bags you are holding, you cannot hold onto railings.
So make like professional clowns, fall all over the train, and laugh helplessly.
Still more Info: Americans are very very polite, or very very scared. All through our nine pin act, we had the other travellers in the train staring fixedly at their books, at each other, or out of the window. No glances at us, no wondering what the blue blazes we were up to, no smiles even.
While we, proud children of Bharat Ma, were rolling in the aisles.
I mean, notice the pun. Rather a good one, don't you think?
Having lugged four shopping bags halfway across town - with groceries in them to last me a couple of weeks.
Which means that come month end, Kulkarni and colleagues head out into the cold biting wind of Boston once again.
Sigh.
My kingdom, such as it is, for good old free home delivery.
Time laga to bhi chalega.
Shopping in India: Dialling nearest shopkeeper to have items delivered home.
Shopping in America: The exquisitely painful process of having ones back broken, wrists sprained, and spirit trod upon. When done with friends: hilarious.
Americans are nuts. Plain kooky.
They have, and I am not making this up, half fat, quarter fat, half and half, skimmed, low fat, medium fat, flavored, soy, semi skimmed, quarter skimmed and three quarters skimmed.
They do not have milk.
Now, fair peoples from the rest of the planet, hear this.
These blessed geniuses from the land of plenty, have this amount of mind boggling variety in over a thousand different commodities.
All located under one gargantuan roof.
Oh, and in case you are sitting back in your chairs with a smug smile on your faces thinking "Ah hah! Kulkarni is on his first visit to Walmart!" - well, umm, no.
This was a food store.
Perfectly reliable, sober and sane sources inform me that larger stores, such as Walmart, would have twice this size in food alone - and about twenty other departments, again - under one roof.
Nuts. Plain kooky.
And I'll tell you why, dear readers.
Because when Kulkarni is given a cart and told to go shop, he will rely on the little list that mummy has given him. Faithfully following to the letter the items neatly numbered on the list, Kulkarni will shop, and get back to mummy all the items that mummy wanted.
Kulkarni will then fall flat on the sofa, until mummy wakes him up for dinner.
This on the rare occasions when the phone call wala system does not work.
But here, in the land of the ridiculously plenty, Kulkarni with a shopping cart is flummoxed. Flabbergasted. Foiled. And other alliterative words that may not be used on nice pages like these.
How to choose one out of a hundred - all of which look equally good. How to not walk about drooling like Dracula at a ball? How to not pick all of the meats available?
Tell, tell?
Which is why Kulkarni walked out of there with four different bags, all bursting with goodies that would have made Claus (he of the Santa fame) look positively pedestrian.
And then Kulkarni fumbled again.
Because in America, he does not have a bike, or a car, or even a rickshaw that he can hail.
He has a taxi that will strip him of all the money that he has, and he has a subway that is more confusing than a Ph.D. in Operations Research.
So Kulkarni, and colleagues (bless 'em!) decide to take the subway.
So there we were, Kulkarni and colleagues, all of us suitably loaded with goodies, standing at the platform, waiting for the train to trundle in.
Info: If you want to cross platforms, you climb onto train, head over to next station, and then change platforms. Because if on the same station, you come out on one side, and into the other, you pay double.
Nuts. Kooky.
So we got into train so that we may get out the other side.
More Info: When in train, hold onto railings. Else, when train starts, and stops, like Newton uncle said, you will fall over each other, repeatedly. Of course, given the number of bags you are holding, you cannot hold onto railings.
So make like professional clowns, fall all over the train, and laugh helplessly.
Still more Info: Americans are very very polite, or very very scared. All through our nine pin act, we had the other travellers in the train staring fixedly at their books, at each other, or out of the window. No glances at us, no wondering what the blue blazes we were up to, no smiles even.
While we, proud children of Bharat Ma, were rolling in the aisles.
I mean, notice the pun. Rather a good one, don't you think?
Having lugged four shopping bags halfway across town - with groceries in them to last me a couple of weeks.
Which means that come month end, Kulkarni and colleagues head out into the cold biting wind of Boston once again.
Sigh.
My kingdom, such as it is, for good old free home delivery.
Time laga to bhi chalega.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Blogging Boston - 1
Errrrm.
I mean, yeah.
Big roads, big country.
Big burgers, big cups of soda (cold drink nahi bolneka), big buildings.
Big this, and big that.
Ooh. Pretty girls.
Of course, no more accessible than they were back home, but that, where Kulkarni is concerned, will never change.
But all said and done, in response to "So how do you like America?"...
Errrrm.
But still and all, my dear devoted readership, for your vicarious pleasure, Kulkarni shall slave away at the keyboard in this country as well.
He shall bring to you tidbits from Amreeka, little vignetttes that will spice up your day, and warm your souls.
He will be the quintessential Indian in Amreeka, and he will entertain you folks for the duration of his exile from India.
Promise.
Kulkarni's Lesson of the Day: Large sodas are LARGE sodas. Like really large. Does not, to the best of my knowledge, apply to beer.
I mean, yeah.
Big roads, big country.
Big burgers, big cups of soda (cold drink nahi bolneka), big buildings.
Big this, and big that.
Ooh. Pretty girls.
Of course, no more accessible than they were back home, but that, where Kulkarni is concerned, will never change.
But all said and done, in response to "So how do you like America?"...
Errrrm.
But still and all, my dear devoted readership, for your vicarious pleasure, Kulkarni shall slave away at the keyboard in this country as well.
He shall bring to you tidbits from Amreeka, little vignetttes that will spice up your day, and warm your souls.
He will be the quintessential Indian in Amreeka, and he will entertain you folks for the duration of his exile from India.
Promise.
Kulkarni's Lesson of the Day: Large sodas are LARGE sodas. Like really large. Does not, to the best of my knowledge, apply to beer.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
To Noel
To tequila and tyres,
To Pearl Jam and Jaggu,
To Old Monk and Mysore,
To Goa,
To the Suzuki.
To Kiran and Knopfler,
To Chili Beef and Coorgi Pork Fry,
To scrambled eggs and loads of pepper,
To beer,
To Pecos.
To the green and to the black,
To Chikmaglur and to Muthodi,
To Yercaud and to the chain sprocket,
To Royal Enfields,
To the Bullet.
To 202 and to 31,
To 496 cans of beer,
To double chicken double egg rolls,
To buddies,
To Bangalore
Cheers, brother.
Bon Voyage.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
And on
There is complete darkness all around.
No street lamps, and no light from houses nearby.
There are no houses nearby.
No far away towns to cast an ambient light for miles around, and no light from the moon above.
There are no oncoming vehicles, and there are no vehicles playing catch up.
It's a road from the back of the beyond. It is not a state highway, it is certainly not a part of the Golden Quadrilateral.
The surface is tarred, and the surface is smooth.
There is no marking on the road - no white line, undulating or dashed.
No markers by the side, and no boards that give directions.
The ones in green, with white lettering - they're not there.
The speed is a constant sixty - it could be more, but then the road could have a sudden bump - and with no light around, that's being pretty risky.
At the edge of the road, speeding along, letting the bike slip into and out of curves. Now she bends this way, and now that-a-way. Slowing into the corners and accelerating out of them.
Now heading for the straights with the throttle open, and now slowing down of her own accord upon encountering a slope.
Now up and now down.
Dark and seemingly abandoned villages pass by - signs that indicate a school, signs that warn of speed-breakers.
The nearest town should have come up a long time back, and the chase is on. Sleepiness combats egotism, and the bike rides on.
Recollections flit in front of tired eyes - maps that seemed to have promised a town half an hour ago. In the saddle for the last sixteen hours, and a seeming eternity to go.
And in the flickering light of the headlamp, underneath the scratched visor and behind the old helmet.
Over the defiantly drooping shoulders, and under the furrowed brow.
As she turns yet another corner to reveal another interminable stretch of macadamized eternity.
You smile.
And ride on.
No street lamps, and no light from houses nearby.
There are no houses nearby.
No far away towns to cast an ambient light for miles around, and no light from the moon above.
There are no oncoming vehicles, and there are no vehicles playing catch up.
It's a road from the back of the beyond. It is not a state highway, it is certainly not a part of the Golden Quadrilateral.
The surface is tarred, and the surface is smooth.
There is no marking on the road - no white line, undulating or dashed.
No markers by the side, and no boards that give directions.
The ones in green, with white lettering - they're not there.
The speed is a constant sixty - it could be more, but then the road could have a sudden bump - and with no light around, that's being pretty risky.
At the edge of the road, speeding along, letting the bike slip into and out of curves. Now she bends this way, and now that-a-way. Slowing into the corners and accelerating out of them.
Now heading for the straights with the throttle open, and now slowing down of her own accord upon encountering a slope.
Now up and now down.
Dark and seemingly abandoned villages pass by - signs that indicate a school, signs that warn of speed-breakers.
The nearest town should have come up a long time back, and the chase is on. Sleepiness combats egotism, and the bike rides on.
Recollections flit in front of tired eyes - maps that seemed to have promised a town half an hour ago. In the saddle for the last sixteen hours, and a seeming eternity to go.
And in the flickering light of the headlamp, underneath the scratched visor and behind the old helmet.
Over the defiantly drooping shoulders, and under the furrowed brow.
As she turns yet another corner to reveal another interminable stretch of macadamized eternity.
You smile.
And ride on.
Friday, August 10, 2007
And may the Good Lord bless Math. Eco.
For those not in the know, you have to go give sixteen papers at Gokhale.
That doesn't qualify you to become a Gokhaleite, by the way. I know people who have done remarkably well in all sixteen and aren't one, and I know people who haven't given the one but are more Gokhaleitish than Gokhaleites themselves.
Anyways, one of those sixteen, for most people in Gokhale, happens to be a paper called Math. Eco.
That happens to stand for Mathematical Economics, and even as they read this, there are people on the face of this mortal earth who'll give an involuntary shudder and curse the undersigned for awakening memories that were safely buried away in some remote inaccessible corner of the subconsciousness.
For now before their hapless inner eye pass ghostly apparitions - indifference curves and Hessians, now Lagrange multipliers and now Jacobians. Second order conditions dance a terrible dance, as do McLaurin and Taylor, damn them.
But enough said. One must not turn away readers who know not what is being said, and one must certainly not terrorize the readers who do.
But the point of bringing up to the surface such a macabre creature of the past is to introduce to you the man of the hour.
For the undersigned become a buddy for life with the said character when both suffered together the trauma of having to memorize the U11's and the U22's.
All the fine and wonderful things that can be said about Kshitij Sethi apart, and make no mistake, that is an inexhaustible list - the finest that can be said from my viewpoint is this - we studied Math. Eco. together.
Kshitij Sethi is a brother, a BBKTK in capital letters. A true dude, and a friend for life.
We've been through thick and we've been through thin.
We been through virulent fruit punches, and through the Manas episodes. Through all night TT sessions and through dropping every bloody soul in Gokhale to either the railway station or to the airport. Through Waasu Mama study sessions and through breakfast at Nal Stop.
And lots more.
But what I remember the most is walking round after round of Kumar Classic, notes left upstairs, talking about this, that and nothing in particular. With a math tutorial up the next day and resignation writ large upon our souls.
One of us triumphed in the Great Khare Wars, and one of us did not.
But Kshitij Sethi became a BBKTK, and the Lord be praised for that.
In fond memory of those walks, and in the hope that there may be a chance for a repeat performance, Amen.
That doesn't qualify you to become a Gokhaleite, by the way. I know people who have done remarkably well in all sixteen and aren't one, and I know people who haven't given the one but are more Gokhaleitish than Gokhaleites themselves.
Anyways, one of those sixteen, for most people in Gokhale, happens to be a paper called Math. Eco.
That happens to stand for Mathematical Economics, and even as they read this, there are people on the face of this mortal earth who'll give an involuntary shudder and curse the undersigned for awakening memories that were safely buried away in some remote inaccessible corner of the subconsciousness.
For now before their hapless inner eye pass ghostly apparitions - indifference curves and Hessians, now Lagrange multipliers and now Jacobians. Second order conditions dance a terrible dance, as do McLaurin and Taylor, damn them.
But enough said. One must not turn away readers who know not what is being said, and one must certainly not terrorize the readers who do.
But the point of bringing up to the surface such a macabre creature of the past is to introduce to you the man of the hour.
For the undersigned become a buddy for life with the said character when both suffered together the trauma of having to memorize the U11's and the U22's.
All the fine and wonderful things that can be said about Kshitij Sethi apart, and make no mistake, that is an inexhaustible list - the finest that can be said from my viewpoint is this - we studied Math. Eco. together.
Kshitij Sethi is a brother, a BBKTK in capital letters. A true dude, and a friend for life.
We've been through thick and we've been through thin.
We been through virulent fruit punches, and through the Manas episodes. Through all night TT sessions and through dropping every bloody soul in Gokhale to either the railway station or to the airport. Through Waasu Mama study sessions and through breakfast at Nal Stop.
And lots more.
But what I remember the most is walking round after round of Kumar Classic, notes left upstairs, talking about this, that and nothing in particular. With a math tutorial up the next day and resignation writ large upon our souls.
One of us triumphed in the Great Khare Wars, and one of us did not.
But Kshitij Sethi became a BBKTK, and the Lord be praised for that.
In fond memory of those walks, and in the hope that there may be a chance for a repeat performance, Amen.
The Bloody Rain
Grey and dark and forbidding.
From the windowed view that Pecos afforded, in between the bars that barricade the windowed view, the rain fell.
Relentlessly, unremittingly.
It had been threatening to fall since morning, and in the late afternoon, it started to pour. And it poured and poured and poured.
The light was dull, and a dirty flood of water flowed down the street outside. People waded through slush, while yet others waited under awnings - waited for the bloody rain to stop - and it never did.
Poured and poured.
I sat with the raconteur, silently.
We didn't talk, and the music didn't play - there were no lights.
All you could listen to was the rain outside, and the occasional peal of thunder.
More rain.
And I looked at the guy who sat in the corner, near the stairs - he'd sat there for as long as we were in - and I asked the raconteur, gesturing towards him - about what his story was.
"Nothing", grunted he, sipping his own beer, " Lost his love".
"How did he manage that, the poor schmuck?" I asked, hoping for a tale.
It rained harder.
"How does it matter?", said the raconteur.
"He lost her, and she ain't coming back. Sometimes, that's all that bloody matters."
Outside, it rained harder still.
From the windowed view that Pecos afforded, in between the bars that barricade the windowed view, the rain fell.
Relentlessly, unremittingly.
It had been threatening to fall since morning, and in the late afternoon, it started to pour. And it poured and poured and poured.
The light was dull, and a dirty flood of water flowed down the street outside. People waded through slush, while yet others waited under awnings - waited for the bloody rain to stop - and it never did.
Poured and poured.
I sat with the raconteur, silently.
We didn't talk, and the music didn't play - there were no lights.
All you could listen to was the rain outside, and the occasional peal of thunder.
More rain.
And I looked at the guy who sat in the corner, near the stairs - he'd sat there for as long as we were in - and I asked the raconteur, gesturing towards him - about what his story was.
"Nothing", grunted he, sipping his own beer, " Lost his love".
"How did he manage that, the poor schmuck?" I asked, hoping for a tale.
It rained harder.
"How does it matter?", said the raconteur.
"He lost her, and she ain't coming back. Sometimes, that's all that bloody matters."
Outside, it rained harder still.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Umm. Arre but!
Listen no, peoples.
An unnamed reader of my wonderful dazzling blog (ain't it just that? I know, I know. Thank you) says that the blog is good.
So what else is new, the rest of my devoted readership will wonder.
That same unnamed reader then says that the Pecos short story kicked ass. As did the poem about the childhood stuff.
The d.r. is now scratching it's head in faint bemusement.
"Is this" the d.r. wonders, "the same Kulkarni who had us all under his spell so effortlessly in all these posts past? And if so, then why is he saying the obvious again and again?"
"Bhaat naansense!" they'll mutter beneath their breath, promising themselves that they'll not stand much more of this tripe.
Patience, brethren and the hot girls who read this blog, patience.
Kulkarni, as always, has an ace up his sleeve.
You see, this same reader also mentioned that the other posts were so well liked because all the travelogues got a leetle beet boring.
Sigh.
I mean.
Really? The travelogues are boring?
An unnamed reader of my wonderful dazzling blog (ain't it just that? I know, I know. Thank you) says that the blog is good.
So what else is new, the rest of my devoted readership will wonder.
That same unnamed reader then says that the Pecos short story kicked ass. As did the poem about the childhood stuff.
The d.r. is now scratching it's head in faint bemusement.
"Is this" the d.r. wonders, "the same Kulkarni who had us all under his spell so effortlessly in all these posts past? And if so, then why is he saying the obvious again and again?"
"Bhaat naansense!" they'll mutter beneath their breath, promising themselves that they'll not stand much more of this tripe.
Patience, brethren and the hot girls who read this blog, patience.
Kulkarni, as always, has an ace up his sleeve.
You see, this same reader also mentioned that the other posts were so well liked because all the travelogues got a leetle beet boring.
Sigh.
I mean.
Really? The travelogues are boring?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Play it again, Sam
Nowadays, Pecos on Saturday evenings is like the rest of Bangalore on Saturday evenings.
Unbearably crowded.
All three floors are completely packed, the staircases are overflowing, and there is no space to be had anywhere.
But on Saturday evening, if one is on Brigade Road, and one is thirsty, then one goes to Pecos.
That's just the way things are, and nothing can be done about it.
And so I stepped into the Tower of Babel, with ye olde Clapton strumming away in the background, beer all round, and a good time to be had.
Kiran waved his usual cheery hand of greeting, and then shrugged smilingly, pointing out that there were no seats to be had. But I'd already spotted the raconteur, perched in the one seat that Pecos seems to keep for him at all hours, halfway through his mug of beer.
He acknowledged my presence by his side by nodding quietly, and motioning to Kiran to supply me with the ambrosia. And suitably armed, I slouched next to him, sipping of the holy glass every now and then.
"It's getting to be a little too crowded in here, ain't it now?" I yelled over the din, cupping my hands against his ear.
"Half of India's brats are in Bangalore", he yelled back, "And twice that many are faithfuls here."
I smiled in agreement, watching the many heads bobbing in time to the music.
"It's going to be such that even the regulars are going to find it hard to get a seat out here" I yelled again, trying to outdo Clapton's decibel levels - he wanted the rain pretty bad.
"Hell yeah", the raconteur said feelingly "Hell, there are days when I come in to find my seat occupied. Just the other day, I had to sit on the bloody staircase, because some young whippersnapper...."
The raconteur stood up then. Smiling, he made way and bade welcome to an old man who'd just entered Pecos.
Old and stooped, with wrinkled face and a crinkled smile. A white, checked shirt worn over black trousers, both of which had seen many a year. Thick, black, rimmed spectacles, truly old ones. Brown leather, weather beaten sandals, and eyes that had long been steeped in humor.
Those wrinkles that you see at the side of the eyes, especially with old people who laugh a lot? Just like those - a lot of 'em.
"Hey, Sammy, my man," the raconteur said, giving the old dodderer a warm hug," How's it going?"
"Like it has been, friend, like it always has been" said Sammy, sinking gratefully onto the stool. " And how's the Shepherd been treating his favorite black sheep?"
"He's got a beer in his hand no, Sammy", Kiran grinned, as he handed Sammy a mug, "He's doing OK, not to worry."
The raconteur introduced me, and old Sammy shook hands, and I noticed they trembled a little.
Sammy smiled as he noticed my glance at his hands linger awhile.
"No, young lad, it's my first mug yet."
We laughed again, as the raconteur led me to the staircase, where space was willingly made for us.
"Quite an old guy, that" I said, hoping to get the raconteur started on one of his many tales.
"Yeah", he said, smiling fondly at the old guy. "Comes in here like you could set the calendar by him... Every Saturday, he'll traipse in, all those many miles from his place - has a beer and goes back home."
"Every weekend?" I asked, looking at the old guy with new found respect. "How old is he?"
"Oh, must be around 70 now. He was one fourth of a gang of four... they've been coming here since the place started. They used to work in an office nearby, and started frequenting this place since it started."
He took a sip and continued.
"There isn't much to say, really... pretty soon, they'd formed a routine. Every Saturday - and Saturdays were half days back then, you know - they'd come in, have a couple of beers, listen to some blues, and get back home."
"Year after year, the same four - Vivek, George, Abhijeet and old Sammy here. Like brothers, they were. They took houses next to each other, their families grew up with each other - they spent their entire lives working for the one firm, and after retirement, they'd still come here - every Saturday evening."
"It was a quiet kind of comradeship - I don't think I've seen any of them drunk, ever. Just some beers, listen to Coltrane, B.B. King, that blues stuff - and leave. Very quiet, very regular."
I nodded thoughtfully.
"So the other three...?"
"Yup," he nodded "One by one... old age and nothing else really. But whoever was left would still come here, and now it's just good old Sammy. Catches the bus from his place, gets off on MG Road, comes up to here, has a mug and goes back. And knowing him, he'll do it until he can't."
"He likes the place that much, eh?", I marvelled, looking over at Sam, who raised his glass at us.
"Well, what's to not like?", asked the raconteur, motioning to Kiran to refill our glasses. "But not really, he comes here for old times sakes - to meet his buddies."
"What do you mean, meet his buddies?", I asked incredulously. "Surely you don't mean to say he thinks they're still..."
"No, no, of course not!", interrupted the raconteur. "Just the memories... he just sits there and relives the good ol' times, that's all. And really, it's a kind of pilgrimage, this Saturday at Pecos business."
Almost out of habit, Kiran had slipped in a B B King CD, and the wizard of the blues was just wrapping up a song on the speakers.
And as the last notes wafted out, almost out of habit, Kiran leaned over the counter towards the old man.
"Play it again, Sammy?", he asked.
Old Sammy nodded. Took a sip, squared his shoulders and smiled back at Kiran.
"Yes, Kiran, my boy", said the septuagenarian," Let the good times roll!"
Unbearably crowded.
All three floors are completely packed, the staircases are overflowing, and there is no space to be had anywhere.
But on Saturday evening, if one is on Brigade Road, and one is thirsty, then one goes to Pecos.
That's just the way things are, and nothing can be done about it.
And so I stepped into the Tower of Babel, with ye olde Clapton strumming away in the background, beer all round, and a good time to be had.
Kiran waved his usual cheery hand of greeting, and then shrugged smilingly, pointing out that there were no seats to be had. But I'd already spotted the raconteur, perched in the one seat that Pecos seems to keep for him at all hours, halfway through his mug of beer.
He acknowledged my presence by his side by nodding quietly, and motioning to Kiran to supply me with the ambrosia. And suitably armed, I slouched next to him, sipping of the holy glass every now and then.
"It's getting to be a little too crowded in here, ain't it now?" I yelled over the din, cupping my hands against his ear.
"Half of India's brats are in Bangalore", he yelled back, "And twice that many are faithfuls here."
I smiled in agreement, watching the many heads bobbing in time to the music.
"It's going to be such that even the regulars are going to find it hard to get a seat out here" I yelled again, trying to outdo Clapton's decibel levels - he wanted the rain pretty bad.
"Hell yeah", the raconteur said feelingly "Hell, there are days when I come in to find my seat occupied. Just the other day, I had to sit on the bloody staircase, because some young whippersnapper...."
The raconteur stood up then. Smiling, he made way and bade welcome to an old man who'd just entered Pecos.
Old and stooped, with wrinkled face and a crinkled smile. A white, checked shirt worn over black trousers, both of which had seen many a year. Thick, black, rimmed spectacles, truly old ones. Brown leather, weather beaten sandals, and eyes that had long been steeped in humor.
Those wrinkles that you see at the side of the eyes, especially with old people who laugh a lot? Just like those - a lot of 'em.
"Hey, Sammy, my man," the raconteur said, giving the old dodderer a warm hug," How's it going?"
"Like it has been, friend, like it always has been" said Sammy, sinking gratefully onto the stool. " And how's the Shepherd been treating his favorite black sheep?"
"He's got a beer in his hand no, Sammy", Kiran grinned, as he handed Sammy a mug, "He's doing OK, not to worry."
The raconteur introduced me, and old Sammy shook hands, and I noticed they trembled a little.
Sammy smiled as he noticed my glance at his hands linger awhile.
"No, young lad, it's my first mug yet."
We laughed again, as the raconteur led me to the staircase, where space was willingly made for us.
"Quite an old guy, that" I said, hoping to get the raconteur started on one of his many tales.
"Yeah", he said, smiling fondly at the old guy. "Comes in here like you could set the calendar by him... Every Saturday, he'll traipse in, all those many miles from his place - has a beer and goes back home."
"Every weekend?" I asked, looking at the old guy with new found respect. "How old is he?"
"Oh, must be around 70 now. He was one fourth of a gang of four... they've been coming here since the place started. They used to work in an office nearby, and started frequenting this place since it started."
He took a sip and continued.
"There isn't much to say, really... pretty soon, they'd formed a routine. Every Saturday - and Saturdays were half days back then, you know - they'd come in, have a couple of beers, listen to some blues, and get back home."
"Year after year, the same four - Vivek, George, Abhijeet and old Sammy here. Like brothers, they were. They took houses next to each other, their families grew up with each other - they spent their entire lives working for the one firm, and after retirement, they'd still come here - every Saturday evening."
"It was a quiet kind of comradeship - I don't think I've seen any of them drunk, ever. Just some beers, listen to Coltrane, B.B. King, that blues stuff - and leave. Very quiet, very regular."
I nodded thoughtfully.
"So the other three...?"
"Yup," he nodded "One by one... old age and nothing else really. But whoever was left would still come here, and now it's just good old Sammy. Catches the bus from his place, gets off on MG Road, comes up to here, has a mug and goes back. And knowing him, he'll do it until he can't."
"He likes the place that much, eh?", I marvelled, looking over at Sam, who raised his glass at us.
"Well, what's to not like?", asked the raconteur, motioning to Kiran to refill our glasses. "But not really, he comes here for old times sakes - to meet his buddies."
"What do you mean, meet his buddies?", I asked incredulously. "Surely you don't mean to say he thinks they're still..."
"No, no, of course not!", interrupted the raconteur. "Just the memories... he just sits there and relives the good ol' times, that's all. And really, it's a kind of pilgrimage, this Saturday at Pecos business."
Almost out of habit, Kiran had slipped in a B B King CD, and the wizard of the blues was just wrapping up a song on the speakers.
And as the last notes wafted out, almost out of habit, Kiran leaned over the counter towards the old man.
"Play it again, Sammy?", he asked.
Old Sammy nodded. Took a sip, squared his shoulders and smiled back at Kiran.
"Yes, Kiran, my boy", said the septuagenarian," Let the good times roll!"
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Another Tingu Kahaani
It looked about the same as it did the last time he had seen it.
Neater, and tidier. Cleaner lawns, well maintained and regularly mowed. The trees were neatly trimmed and the hedges were orderly. The katta was smoother, and had a neat line of yellow paint running along the bottom. There were gardeners everywhere, and important looking watchmen in crisp uniforms.
The students milled around the campus, in new fangled clothes with cell phones stuck to their ears. There was a coffee machine in the campus, and no evidence of the tapri outside.
Cars were dominant now, let alone motorcycles, and certainly no bicycles. More than a few students had laptops out and open in front of them, and to the casual eye, it certainly looked to be a different story.
But it looked about the same as it did the last time he had seen it.
The classrooms were now equipped with the latest in gadgetry, and the seating might have come straight out of a corporate boardroom. No blackboard, no chalks, no dusters.
Smooth shiny flooring, wallpapered walls, and air-conditioning.
None of the professors seemed familiar, and none of the old staff remained.
The professors rooms had been revamped, as had the old cafeteria.
Some of the trees at the back had been removed, and there was now a spanking new building that housed the-lord-alone-knew-what.
He went right to the back of the college, at the spot where he had whiled away many an hour, he and his friends. There was an old bench there, broken down all those many years ago, on which they used to park themselves those days.
That bench too was no more.
It had been replaced by another bench, different in appearance.
But on it sat another gang. A bunch of youngsters, satchel bags slung over their shoulders, laughing and joking.
They noticed him standing there, looking at them, far away smile on face.
One of them walked up to him, confident and helpful.
"Do you need any help, sir? You look a little lost."
He smiled.
He looked at the young man in front of him, and he looked at the bench.
"Lost?" , he said, looking around him.
"Nope, son. I'm home."
Neater, and tidier. Cleaner lawns, well maintained and regularly mowed. The trees were neatly trimmed and the hedges were orderly. The katta was smoother, and had a neat line of yellow paint running along the bottom. There were gardeners everywhere, and important looking watchmen in crisp uniforms.
The students milled around the campus, in new fangled clothes with cell phones stuck to their ears. There was a coffee machine in the campus, and no evidence of the tapri outside.
Cars were dominant now, let alone motorcycles, and certainly no bicycles. More than a few students had laptops out and open in front of them, and to the casual eye, it certainly looked to be a different story.
But it looked about the same as it did the last time he had seen it.
The classrooms were now equipped with the latest in gadgetry, and the seating might have come straight out of a corporate boardroom. No blackboard, no chalks, no dusters.
Smooth shiny flooring, wallpapered walls, and air-conditioning.
None of the professors seemed familiar, and none of the old staff remained.
The professors rooms had been revamped, as had the old cafeteria.
Some of the trees at the back had been removed, and there was now a spanking new building that housed the-lord-alone-knew-what.
He went right to the back of the college, at the spot where he had whiled away many an hour, he and his friends. There was an old bench there, broken down all those many years ago, on which they used to park themselves those days.
That bench too was no more.
It had been replaced by another bench, different in appearance.
But on it sat another gang. A bunch of youngsters, satchel bags slung over their shoulders, laughing and joking.
They noticed him standing there, looking at them, far away smile on face.
One of them walked up to him, confident and helpful.
"Do you need any help, sir? You look a little lost."
He smiled.
He looked at the young man in front of him, and he looked at the bench.
"Lost?" , he said, looking around him.
"Nope, son. I'm home."
Friday, July 20, 2007
Is Raat Ki Subah Nahi
And so out we went of the restaurant.
Onto the bikes, and rode through the city. At a signal, we stopped and asked a policeman for the road to Amba Ghat. Who duly directed us towards one of the exits from the city.
And so we passed from the city, into the outskirts and finally out of town. Large buildings gave way to small buildings, and small buildings gave way to large warehouses. Large warehouses finally ceded way to scraggly unkempt hedges, that revealed,at long last, large rolling fields of sugarcane.
The countryside had come.
On a bike, on the long rides, the cities are the worst. There's a sense of uncertainty to the traffic, and you have to keep your eyes peeled for the expected surprise. A tractor going the wrong way, a small kid running onto the road, dogs who can't make up their mind, people who don't have one - all kinds of idiots abound.
And you end up concentrating on the traffic, on the road, on the signals.
But out of the city, with a tiny white line dividing the road, you don't focus on much of anything. You keep an eye out for traffic, but there isn't much of it. You fall into a slow trance, and the miles eat themselves up. And you sing songs to yourself, you think of pretty girls, of cold bottles of beer, of hot home cooked food, of your buddies and you think of the road up ahead.
Ride on.
And on and on, past the fields, up and down small curving roads that gently undulate themselves for miles on end. Little rivulets flow below the road in irregular intervals, and green hills, now low, now low slung, fall over each other as one moves from the plains towards the ghats.
The Yamaha is now on reserve, stop at the nearest petrol pump, tank her up. And ride on.
The Amba Ghat is one of the most beautiful places there is. Lovely long roads soar and dip in regal abandon, from the Deccan plateau onto the Konkan. Do visit.
But not if you want to go to blooody fricking Goa.
Then, from Kolhapur, go to Amboli Ghat. Not Amba Ghat.
Am-bloody-boli ghat.
Because Amba Ghat goes away from Goa.
At 4.30 in the afternoon, in the middle of Amba Ghat, we didn't quite know where we were, but expected to hit Goa in about two hours.
At 6.30, we realized that Panaji was about 350 kilometers away. Another eight hours or so.
Umm, whoops.
Quick call. Halt for the night, take a good nights rest, and ride on the next morning. We were tired, it had been a long day, and Ketan couldn't see at night, because he was blind as a bat without his spectacles, but the specs reflected the light of the oncoming vehicles.
Basically, he couldn't see.
So, yeah, stop for the night.
But then I wouldn't be writing this, and you wouldn't be reading it, now would you.
And so for the sake of the blog you're reading now, we rode on.
From a grassy embankment, on which we laid to rest our weary butts, and where we decided to ride on, bhaisaabs rode on.
Beyond Rajapur, beyond Kharepatan, beyond Kasarda, and beyond Kankavli and Kudal.
A little before Sawantwadi, we stopped for a cup of tea, where Ketan bhaisaab revealed to us his blind as a b. status.
So from now on, with no lights on the road, we rode thus.
Kulkarni up front, praying away to glory, and agnosticism be damned.
Girish behind Kulkarni, craning his neck to check if the hirsute bear is safely astride the Splendor.
And the hirsute bear that was Ketan Kulkarni would, without his specs, focus and peer, and squint to make out the hazy rearlamp of the Yamaha.
And follow it.
Look, I'm pretty old now. And as horrified as you are.
But back then, it seemed a good idea.
On and through Sawantwadi, on through to Banda, down the Insuli Ghat, and finally, the Lord be praised, into Goa.
Where we were promptly stopped at the border. And since I did not have my insurance, we paid a bribe of 200.
And then followed the worst part of the journey.
Because beyond the Goa border, and until you reach Mhapsa, there lies a long stretch of road that never ends. And with heightened anticipation, you ride on and on and on.
Until you finally reach Corvorim circle, from where you ride on towards the beach, and reach an extremely sleepy Baga village.
Which wakes up, frowns, shakes its head and offers from it's recesses a room with that modern miracle - a blessed bed.
But we men are made of sterner stuff.
At three in the night, dog tired and beaten to the bone, Ketan Kulkarni and self stagger out into the night, find a Chinese restaurant that serves abominable food, and buy from him six bottles of the best that Goa has to offer.
And in our rooms, we make use of the opener, and sip on King's beer.
Because if one is to ride for 22 hours to reach Goa, it is with a purpose in mind.
Kings. Because.
Same thing.
Onto the bikes, and rode through the city. At a signal, we stopped and asked a policeman for the road to Amba Ghat. Who duly directed us towards one of the exits from the city.
And so we passed from the city, into the outskirts and finally out of town. Large buildings gave way to small buildings, and small buildings gave way to large warehouses. Large warehouses finally ceded way to scraggly unkempt hedges, that revealed,at long last, large rolling fields of sugarcane.
The countryside had come.
On a bike, on the long rides, the cities are the worst. There's a sense of uncertainty to the traffic, and you have to keep your eyes peeled for the expected surprise. A tractor going the wrong way, a small kid running onto the road, dogs who can't make up their mind, people who don't have one - all kinds of idiots abound.
And you end up concentrating on the traffic, on the road, on the signals.
But out of the city, with a tiny white line dividing the road, you don't focus on much of anything. You keep an eye out for traffic, but there isn't much of it. You fall into a slow trance, and the miles eat themselves up. And you sing songs to yourself, you think of pretty girls, of cold bottles of beer, of hot home cooked food, of your buddies and you think of the road up ahead.
Ride on.
And on and on, past the fields, up and down small curving roads that gently undulate themselves for miles on end. Little rivulets flow below the road in irregular intervals, and green hills, now low, now low slung, fall over each other as one moves from the plains towards the ghats.
The Yamaha is now on reserve, stop at the nearest petrol pump, tank her up. And ride on.
The Amba Ghat is one of the most beautiful places there is. Lovely long roads soar and dip in regal abandon, from the Deccan plateau onto the Konkan. Do visit.
But not if you want to go to blooody fricking Goa.
Then, from Kolhapur, go to Amboli Ghat. Not Amba Ghat.
Am-bloody-boli ghat.
Because Amba Ghat goes away from Goa.
At 4.30 in the afternoon, in the middle of Amba Ghat, we didn't quite know where we were, but expected to hit Goa in about two hours.
At 6.30, we realized that Panaji was about 350 kilometers away. Another eight hours or so.
Umm, whoops.
Quick call. Halt for the night, take a good nights rest, and ride on the next morning. We were tired, it had been a long day, and Ketan couldn't see at night, because he was blind as a bat without his spectacles, but the specs reflected the light of the oncoming vehicles.
Basically, he couldn't see.
So, yeah, stop for the night.
But then I wouldn't be writing this, and you wouldn't be reading it, now would you.
And so for the sake of the blog you're reading now, we rode on.
From a grassy embankment, on which we laid to rest our weary butts, and where we decided to ride on, bhaisaabs rode on.
Beyond Rajapur, beyond Kharepatan, beyond Kasarda, and beyond Kankavli and Kudal.
A little before Sawantwadi, we stopped for a cup of tea, where Ketan bhaisaab revealed to us his blind as a b. status.
So from now on, with no lights on the road, we rode thus.
Kulkarni up front, praying away to glory, and agnosticism be damned.
Girish behind Kulkarni, craning his neck to check if the hirsute bear is safely astride the Splendor.
And the hirsute bear that was Ketan Kulkarni would, without his specs, focus and peer, and squint to make out the hazy rearlamp of the Yamaha.
And follow it.
Look, I'm pretty old now. And as horrified as you are.
But back then, it seemed a good idea.
On and through Sawantwadi, on through to Banda, down the Insuli Ghat, and finally, the Lord be praised, into Goa.
Where we were promptly stopped at the border. And since I did not have my insurance, we paid a bribe of 200.
And then followed the worst part of the journey.
Because beyond the Goa border, and until you reach Mhapsa, there lies a long stretch of road that never ends. And with heightened anticipation, you ride on and on and on.
Until you finally reach Corvorim circle, from where you ride on towards the beach, and reach an extremely sleepy Baga village.
Which wakes up, frowns, shakes its head and offers from it's recesses a room with that modern miracle - a blessed bed.
But we men are made of sterner stuff.
At three in the night, dog tired and beaten to the bone, Ketan Kulkarni and self stagger out into the night, find a Chinese restaurant that serves abominable food, and buy from him six bottles of the best that Goa has to offer.
And in our rooms, we make use of the opener, and sip on King's beer.
Because if one is to ride for 22 hours to reach Goa, it is with a purpose in mind.
Kings. Because.
Same thing.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Kolhapur Onwards - The Nightmare Begins
Kolhapur is a town I know next to nothing about. It's got some deal going on about sugar, and it's got two entrances to the city from NH4. It's got one exit that has truly bitter memories, but hold your ghodas, more about that later.
What I do know about Kolhapur is that the city is supposed to serve the best mutton around. Dry spices are supposed to combine with suitably tempered oil, to which is added the most tender, the most succulent, the most delectable mutton that is found in India.
That supreme work of art is available in curry format (spiciness: bold, italicized, font size 72, colour red), or dry, or semi-dry. And it is.... sigh.
Along with it, those cruel tormentors from down south Maharashtra serve two varieties of rassa. If you do not know what rassa means, swarry.
One is tambda (red) and the other, pandhra (white). Green chillies, papad, friend onion, raitha, unlimited chapatis and rice, and a glass of what is, in my opinion, the finest non-alcoholic beverage on on the planet, sol kadhi.
Oh man oh man. What the meal, I be telling you.
We gorged on the victuals until kingdom come - this was at a place just a little bit into town, a place called Rutuja.
Chapati after chapati was wolfed down, and the carnage went on for almost an hour. At which point, satiated, rather bloated, we sat back and ordered yet another contemplative glass of solkadhi.
From Pune, you see, one comes down in almost a straight line, due south, to reach Kolhapur. At Kolhapur, one turns due west, one goes down the Sahyadris, via a very picturesque ghat called Amboli (old timers may recall this) and drives on to reach Goa.
This much we knew.
And hence, satiated and bloated as we were, we smilingly turned to the kind considerate waiter who had been serving us all this while and asked him if he knew the way to Amboli Ghat.
Slight puzzlement, slight frown. Slight movement that may have indicated the beginning of the shrug of the shoulders - and we were that far away from asking someone else.
But then the nuerons in that primitive brain fired, and zigged zagged around wildly in his cranium.
And there was a smile, and the dreaded, fateful question.
"Oh, you mean Amba Ghat?!"
Quick revison.
From Pune, go south, go west, go south again. Goa.
What to NOT do.
From Pune, go south, go north again. No Goa.
And so, at around 2 in the afternoon, after consulting the last surviving Neanderthal on the planet, the trio headed out to meet their fate.
Fate was carrying an unusually large, unusually prickly bamboo that day.
What I do know about Kolhapur is that the city is supposed to serve the best mutton around. Dry spices are supposed to combine with suitably tempered oil, to which is added the most tender, the most succulent, the most delectable mutton that is found in India.
That supreme work of art is available in curry format (spiciness: bold, italicized, font size 72, colour red), or dry, or semi-dry. And it is.... sigh.
Along with it, those cruel tormentors from down south Maharashtra serve two varieties of rassa. If you do not know what rassa means, swarry.
One is tambda (red) and the other, pandhra (white). Green chillies, papad, friend onion, raitha, unlimited chapatis and rice, and a glass of what is, in my opinion, the finest non-alcoholic beverage on on the planet, sol kadhi.
Oh man oh man. What the meal, I be telling you.
We gorged on the victuals until kingdom come - this was at a place just a little bit into town, a place called Rutuja.
Chapati after chapati was wolfed down, and the carnage went on for almost an hour. At which point, satiated, rather bloated, we sat back and ordered yet another contemplative glass of solkadhi.
From Pune, you see, one comes down in almost a straight line, due south, to reach Kolhapur. At Kolhapur, one turns due west, one goes down the Sahyadris, via a very picturesque ghat called Amboli (old timers may recall this) and drives on to reach Goa.
This much we knew.
And hence, satiated and bloated as we were, we smilingly turned to the kind considerate waiter who had been serving us all this while and asked him if he knew the way to Amboli Ghat.
Slight puzzlement, slight frown. Slight movement that may have indicated the beginning of the shrug of the shoulders - and we were that far away from asking someone else.
But then the nuerons in that primitive brain fired, and zigged zagged around wildly in his cranium.
And there was a smile, and the dreaded, fateful question.
"Oh, you mean Amba Ghat?!"
Quick revison.
From Pune, go south, go west, go south again. Goa.
What to NOT do.
From Pune, go south, go north again. No Goa.
And so, at around 2 in the afternoon, after consulting the last surviving Neanderthal on the planet, the trio headed out to meet their fate.
Fate was carrying an unusually large, unusually prickly bamboo that day.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Up Until Kolhapur
Girish behind me, and Ketan on the other bike.
Nice easy flow to the ride, it's early morning time. Hardly any traffic on the road, and now Ketan is in the front, and now I.
The road is smooth, empty, wide open and inviting.
And it is COLD!
Neither Ketan nor I are wearing gloves, and the fingers go cold, colder and numb. Up Katraj Ghat and down, beyond the last far-flung outposts of Pune, out into the open countryside, and mother of God it is cold.
Brrrrrrr.
I remember not being able to sing all the verses of "Oh Mere Dil Ke Chain".
Which has nothing to do with anything, but I remember it.
About an hour into the ride, we stop for a couple of swigs of Electral laden water, and Ketan has his first smoke of the day.
I may have touched upon this before on these pages, but let it be said once more.
On bike rides, a cigarette smoker is a wonderful animal to have. His craving for the cigarette ensures that you stop every now and then, and it also ensures that your stops are not longer than they should be. You have enough time to take a couple of swigs of water, loosen your limbs, look around and pee. By that time, bhaisaab (whomsoever the bhaisaab may be) has whittled down his cigarette to nothingness and had a couple of swigs of water himself.
Nod at each other and ride on. Ess, ess... ciggies are good things.
Beyond Shirwal, which is a town that is fabled for it's vada pavs. Beyond that part of the NH4 that is still two laned, and will be for eternity, a brief stop for some chai and bicuits, and ride on.
After the Katraj Ghat, which is not much of anything, really, the first major Ghat that hits you on the way to Goa is the Khambatki Ghat.
Long long ago, the Khambatki Ghat curved its narrow curvaceous way up the mountains and down again, a small two laned monstrosity that threatened all who dared make their tremuluous way up it's treachorous path.
Try saying that after chugging a pint.
But anyways, one day, Authority, no doubt having flirted with death by choosing to commute on the damned road, decided to do something about it. And Authority went and built a tunnel through the mountain.
So now, while going away from Pune, you have a nice long ride up the Ghat, with no threat of oncoming vehicles, and while going back to Pune, you have a lovely wide long tunnel that bores right through the mountain, the Lord be praised.
So up the mountain we went, and down the mountain we came, and we passed the bypass to go to Mahabaleshwar.
And then got screwed.
Authority, in one of it's many manifestations, had decided that the country should be connected, or at any rate, it's four metros should be, by roads that were truly world class in nature. So, Bombay was to be connected to Chennai (eventually) by a nice long four laned highway. All part of a Grand Plan that was called the Golden Quadrilateral.
But the GPtwctGQ, when under construction, was a PitA. A RPitA.
It had half built flyovers that no one could use. It had construction firms crawling all over it. It had little muddy by lanes going around the half built flyovers that every truck, lorry, van and bus in India was using. Along with two rather frustrated bikes.
But now what to do. You take the rough with the rougher.
And that is how Ketan and self rode on, with Girish hanging on to the rails for dear life, every now and then telling the Good Lord up there that Agnosticism and Atheism were for the crows. Now a burst of speed, and now a halt behind a line of vehicles. Now wide empty spaces and fourth gear and belt along, hell for leather. Now halt because a cow has blocked the excuse for a road.
On and on and on.
A small halt for some kulfi under the shade of an age old tree, and on and on again.
At around noon, we turned in to the town of Kolhapur. Into the Loksatta gates, and in search of a restaurant that would serve us some mutton.
Meeshtake. Beeg meeshtake.
P.S. Pain in the Ass. Royal Pain in the Ass. For those who were wondering.
Nice easy flow to the ride, it's early morning time. Hardly any traffic on the road, and now Ketan is in the front, and now I.
The road is smooth, empty, wide open and inviting.
And it is COLD!
Neither Ketan nor I are wearing gloves, and the fingers go cold, colder and numb. Up Katraj Ghat and down, beyond the last far-flung outposts of Pune, out into the open countryside, and mother of God it is cold.
Brrrrrrr.
I remember not being able to sing all the verses of "Oh Mere Dil Ke Chain".
Which has nothing to do with anything, but I remember it.
About an hour into the ride, we stop for a couple of swigs of Electral laden water, and Ketan has his first smoke of the day.
I may have touched upon this before on these pages, but let it be said once more.
On bike rides, a cigarette smoker is a wonderful animal to have. His craving for the cigarette ensures that you stop every now and then, and it also ensures that your stops are not longer than they should be. You have enough time to take a couple of swigs of water, loosen your limbs, look around and pee. By that time, bhaisaab (whomsoever the bhaisaab may be) has whittled down his cigarette to nothingness and had a couple of swigs of water himself.
Nod at each other and ride on. Ess, ess... ciggies are good things.
Beyond Shirwal, which is a town that is fabled for it's vada pavs. Beyond that part of the NH4 that is still two laned, and will be for eternity, a brief stop for some chai and bicuits, and ride on.
After the Katraj Ghat, which is not much of anything, really, the first major Ghat that hits you on the way to Goa is the Khambatki Ghat.
Long long ago, the Khambatki Ghat curved its narrow curvaceous way up the mountains and down again, a small two laned monstrosity that threatened all who dared make their tremuluous way up it's treachorous path.
Try saying that after chugging a pint.
But anyways, one day, Authority, no doubt having flirted with death by choosing to commute on the damned road, decided to do something about it. And Authority went and built a tunnel through the mountain.
So now, while going away from Pune, you have a nice long ride up the Ghat, with no threat of oncoming vehicles, and while going back to Pune, you have a lovely wide long tunnel that bores right through the mountain, the Lord be praised.
So up the mountain we went, and down the mountain we came, and we passed the bypass to go to Mahabaleshwar.
And then got screwed.
Authority, in one of it's many manifestations, had decided that the country should be connected, or at any rate, it's four metros should be, by roads that were truly world class in nature. So, Bombay was to be connected to Chennai (eventually) by a nice long four laned highway. All part of a Grand Plan that was called the Golden Quadrilateral.
But the GPtwctGQ, when under construction, was a PitA. A RPitA.
It had half built flyovers that no one could use. It had construction firms crawling all over it. It had little muddy by lanes going around the half built flyovers that every truck, lorry, van and bus in India was using. Along with two rather frustrated bikes.
But now what to do. You take the rough with the rougher.
And that is how Ketan and self rode on, with Girish hanging on to the rails for dear life, every now and then telling the Good Lord up there that Agnosticism and Atheism were for the crows. Now a burst of speed, and now a halt behind a line of vehicles. Now wide empty spaces and fourth gear and belt along, hell for leather. Now halt because a cow has blocked the excuse for a road.
On and on and on.
A small halt for some kulfi under the shade of an age old tree, and on and on again.
At around noon, we turned in to the town of Kolhapur. Into the Loksatta gates, and in search of a restaurant that would serve us some mutton.
Meeshtake. Beeg meeshtake.
P.S. Pain in the Ass. Royal Pain in the Ass. For those who were wondering.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Reunion Time at Gokhale, Peoples!
Boys and Dear Girls,
There be a reunion of all things glorious in Gokhale, in August, 2007. One knows not if one may be there, since one may be off to Amreeka, but one encourages all other numbers to turn up in numbers to make up the numbers.
If there be any Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and get yourself registered.
If there be any non-Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and tell all the Gokhaleites you know.
Cheers, All.
There be a reunion of all things glorious in Gokhale, in August, 2007. One knows not if one may be there, since one may be off to Amreeka, but one encourages all other numbers to turn up in numbers to make up the numbers.
If there be any Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and get yourself registered.
If there be any non-Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and tell all the Gokhaleites you know.
Cheers, All.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Regular Transmission Will Resume Shortly...
A splash in a puddle of water,
A boat in water let free,
A smile on my face that tells of glee,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Bags and canvas shoes and waterbottles,
Vada pavs and jam roti,
Muddy socks and bloody knees,
Bring back my childhood to me.
DD and Sunday morning cartoons,
Good ol' Disney and Mowgli,
Just two ruddy channels on my TV,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Homework and classwork and schoolwork,
Cricket when the clock strikes three,
Lapa chappi, langdi and lagori!
Bring back my childhood to me.
Units and terms and finals,
Three months of summer so free,
Tales of Shivaji and Noddy,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Adulthood and and all things damned,
That kid's a faint memory,
Help me smile again with glee,
Oh, bring back my childhood to me.
A boat in water let free,
A smile on my face that tells of glee,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Bags and canvas shoes and waterbottles,
Vada pavs and jam roti,
Muddy socks and bloody knees,
Bring back my childhood to me.
DD and Sunday morning cartoons,
Good ol' Disney and Mowgli,
Just two ruddy channels on my TV,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Homework and classwork and schoolwork,
Cricket when the clock strikes three,
Lapa chappi, langdi and lagori!
Bring back my childhood to me.
Units and terms and finals,
Three months of summer so free,
Tales of Shivaji and Noddy,
Bring back my childhood to me.
Adulthood and and all things damned,
That kid's a faint memory,
Help me smile again with glee,
Oh, bring back my childhood to me.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Looky Who's Here!
Leetle beet of a digression from the tale at hand, ladies and ledas.
A warm welcoming round of applause to the latest entrant into the blogosphere.
Beer drinker, buddy, biraadar.
And now a blogger.
Say hullo to GTya. Welcome, bhaisaab.
A warm welcoming round of applause to the latest entrant into the blogosphere.
Beer drinker, buddy, biraadar.
And now a blogger.
Say hullo to GTya. Welcome, bhaisaab.
Day 1
Two motorcycles.
One Yamaha, one Splendor, both as ready as they were ever going to be. Given cash constraints, that is.
Clothes, check. CD player, borrowed from Binoy, check.
CD's, hurriedly written, check. First aid kit, check. Toolkit, check.
Spare headlamp, spare accelarator cable, spare clutch cable, check. Two bottles of water, kept in the refrigerator, Electral duly mixed in, check.
Dinner at Roopali done, petrol filled at the Bharat Petroluem pump, using the Petro Card - check.
All done, all ready to go, all bags packed, and the time is 11.30 p.m. We leave at 4 tomorrow morning. Check.
OK, g'night all.
You can't see the ceiling when the lights are off. You can see streaks of light slant across the wall, as they filter in through the window. You can see approaching headlights bounce off the wall, and you can hear the engine. You can hear people talking as they walk out of Good Luck - we were sleeping in Naani House that night. You can go over the checklist a million times, you can think of the drive, you can think of possible problems, contingencies, about the bike, about Descartes, about Knopfler, about bikini clad babes on beaches.
You cannot sleep. No matter what the bloody hell you do, you cannot sleep. You lie awake, thinking, fearing, wondering, counting sheep. But no sleep.
At two in the morning, out of sheer exhaustion, you finally doze off. Only to bolt upright with the alarm at four in the morning. The adrenalin flowing, you wake the others up and start to get ready. Only to realise that Ketan is fast asleep still.
Naturally.
Girish and I are ready and raring to go, but the Australian version of Santa Claus refuses to stir. You prod, you yell, you scream, you rant and you rave.
Tickling him worked.
Biraadar woke up, insisted on having a long drawn out bath - we were to find out later that he was puking in the bathroom, oh joy - and finally stepped out.
Girish was to sit behind me, and the bag that held our clothing was to sit behind Ketan.
Which was to be affixed to the Splendor using what are known as bungee cords. The point is, they are easily stretchable, easily hooked up, and they save you time.
So half an hour after we started tying the bag up, we were all set to go.
I took the Yam out of the house, Girish sat behind me. I started her up.
Ketan dragged his baby out of that little gate, and started her up.
One quick glance, raised eyebrows, slight grin.
Gallic shrug of the shoulders, and off we go.
Out of the small lane, past Maharashtra Bank, on to Lakdi Pool. Up Tilak Road, turn right and head off towards City Pride. Away and beyond, out of the city, past the truck lay byes, and hit Katraj Ghat.
Onwards, you Philistines.
One Yamaha, one Splendor, both as ready as they were ever going to be. Given cash constraints, that is.
Clothes, check. CD player, borrowed from Binoy, check.
CD's, hurriedly written, check. First aid kit, check. Toolkit, check.
Spare headlamp, spare accelarator cable, spare clutch cable, check. Two bottles of water, kept in the refrigerator, Electral duly mixed in, check.
Dinner at Roopali done, petrol filled at the Bharat Petroluem pump, using the Petro Card - check.
All done, all ready to go, all bags packed, and the time is 11.30 p.m. We leave at 4 tomorrow morning. Check.
OK, g'night all.
You can't see the ceiling when the lights are off. You can see streaks of light slant across the wall, as they filter in through the window. You can see approaching headlights bounce off the wall, and you can hear the engine. You can hear people talking as they walk out of Good Luck - we were sleeping in Naani House that night. You can go over the checklist a million times, you can think of the drive, you can think of possible problems, contingencies, about the bike, about Descartes, about Knopfler, about bikini clad babes on beaches.
You cannot sleep. No matter what the bloody hell you do, you cannot sleep. You lie awake, thinking, fearing, wondering, counting sheep. But no sleep.
At two in the morning, out of sheer exhaustion, you finally doze off. Only to bolt upright with the alarm at four in the morning. The adrenalin flowing, you wake the others up and start to get ready. Only to realise that Ketan is fast asleep still.
Naturally.
Girish and I are ready and raring to go, but the Australian version of Santa Claus refuses to stir. You prod, you yell, you scream, you rant and you rave.
Tickling him worked.
Biraadar woke up, insisted on having a long drawn out bath - we were to find out later that he was puking in the bathroom, oh joy - and finally stepped out.
Girish was to sit behind me, and the bag that held our clothing was to sit behind Ketan.
Which was to be affixed to the Splendor using what are known as bungee cords. The point is, they are easily stretchable, easily hooked up, and they save you time.
So half an hour after we started tying the bag up, we were all set to go.
I took the Yam out of the house, Girish sat behind me. I started her up.
Ketan dragged his baby out of that little gate, and started her up.
One quick glance, raised eyebrows, slight grin.
Gallic shrug of the shoulders, and off we go.
Out of the small lane, past Maharashtra Bank, on to Lakdi Pool. Up Tilak Road, turn right and head off towards City Pride. Away and beyond, out of the city, past the truck lay byes, and hit Katraj Ghat.
Onwards, you Philistines.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Girish, Ketan and Shoan - In Alphabetical Order
Girish - a.k.a the Grinch, Gandhi and that irritating little so and so.
He'd have been called a little twerp back in the days of yore. Really, he would have. And mind you, those days of yore had something going for them. This is what a search for twerp threw up:
"of unknown origin; the "Dictionary of American Slang" gives a first reference of 1874 (but without citation), which, if correct, would rule out the usual theory that it is from the proper name of T.W. Earp, a student at Oxford c.1911, who kindled wrath "in the hearts of the rugger-playing stalwarts at Oxford, when he was president of the Union, by being the last, most charming, and wittiest of the 'decadents.' "
"
Confusing, obscure, witty, sarcastic, a biting tongue and generally speaking, a little twerp.
What you read above was written for two principal reasons.
One, Girish would want it no other way.
Two, it's true.
Girish is one of the most widely read guys I know. He reads without prejudice, without preconceived notions, and with next to no expectations.
Unless it's a self help book, in which case the rule stands reversed.
He's got a wicked sense of humour, a cutting edge sense of comic timing, and a deep rooted aversion to tomatoes and cheese.
He likes trees, hates warmth (and I don't just mean weather wise), likes conversations and dislikes yapping. He likes Man. Utd., he dislikes Fergusson.
He likes Fergusson, he dislikes Man. Utd.
He likes beer, he likes gin. He likes Pune, he likes Bob Dylan.
Girish is a sixty year old sarcastic Maharashtrian Punekar.
Appearances dictate otherwise, but that's just the sheep's clothing.
Ketan is mad. Ketan loved Ayn Rand, Ketan despises Ayn Rand.
Yes, all right. Me too.
Ketan is the most fantastic drinker I know. I have known quite a few in my time, but there is none who matches up to him. Self included.
Ketan knows Metallica the way I know Knopfler, or Girish knows Dylan. Or the way Shoan knows R.G.D. Allen.
Ketan used to ride a black Kinetic that wouldn't run. Ketan later purchased a Bullet that went the same way.
Ketan smokes. I don't mean he's a smoker. I mean that he is smoking now. As you are reading this.
Ketan can talk about philosophy and psychology for hours. All of it may not make sense (and that's being liberal), but he can talk about it for hours.
Yes, all right. Me too.
Ketan loves drinking Kings.
Ketan passes with flying colours on the TTT.
Ask Ketan.
Shoan. If you were God, and you had a chisel and hammer in your hands... sorry, Your hands... and you decided... You, I mean... to carve out the most perfect living being ever... then You would spend a Hell of a lot more than six days and seven nights, chipping away at the block, and you would finally stand back and appreciate your work.
And then realise that you ain't even close.
Shoan is the most normal man I know. No vices, no faults, no bursts of temper, no drunken bouts, no nothing.
He is also the best economist I know. Well OK, second best. Personally, I mean.
Quiet, reserved, fiercely loyal, well read, friendly, and a buddy.
And of all the friends I have known, past, present, and future... Shoan's the only guy who would choose an hour of studying over ten of drinking.
On behalf of all those friends, cheers mate.
That there then are the troika. Over the space of six days in October 2003, you'll get to meet all of them in greater detail still.
Comin' up next: "Here we go, boys and girls"
He'd have been called a little twerp back in the days of yore. Really, he would have. And mind you, those days of yore had something going for them. This is what a search for twerp threw up:
"of unknown origin; the "Dictionary of American Slang" gives a first reference of 1874 (but without citation), which, if correct, would rule out the usual theory that it is from the proper name of T.W. Earp, a student at Oxford c.1911, who kindled wrath "in the hearts of the rugger-playing stalwarts at Oxford, when he was president of the Union, by being the last, most charming, and wittiest of the 'decadents.' "
"
Confusing, obscure, witty, sarcastic, a biting tongue and generally speaking, a little twerp.
What you read above was written for two principal reasons.
One, Girish would want it no other way.
Two, it's true.
Girish is one of the most widely read guys I know. He reads without prejudice, without preconceived notions, and with next to no expectations.
Unless it's a self help book, in which case the rule stands reversed.
He's got a wicked sense of humour, a cutting edge sense of comic timing, and a deep rooted aversion to tomatoes and cheese.
He likes trees, hates warmth (and I don't just mean weather wise), likes conversations and dislikes yapping. He likes Man. Utd., he dislikes Fergusson.
He likes Fergusson, he dislikes Man. Utd.
He likes beer, he likes gin. He likes Pune, he likes Bob Dylan.
Girish is a sixty year old sarcastic Maharashtrian Punekar.
Appearances dictate otherwise, but that's just the sheep's clothing.
Ketan is mad. Ketan loved Ayn Rand, Ketan despises Ayn Rand.
Yes, all right. Me too.
Ketan is the most fantastic drinker I know. I have known quite a few in my time, but there is none who matches up to him. Self included.
Ketan knows Metallica the way I know Knopfler, or Girish knows Dylan. Or the way Shoan knows R.G.D. Allen.
Ketan used to ride a black Kinetic that wouldn't run. Ketan later purchased a Bullet that went the same way.
Ketan smokes. I don't mean he's a smoker. I mean that he is smoking now. As you are reading this.
Ketan can talk about philosophy and psychology for hours. All of it may not make sense (and that's being liberal), but he can talk about it for hours.
Yes, all right. Me too.
Ketan loves drinking Kings.
Ketan passes with flying colours on the TTT.
Ask Ketan.
Shoan. If you were God, and you had a chisel and hammer in your hands... sorry, Your hands... and you decided... You, I mean... to carve out the most perfect living being ever... then You would spend a Hell of a lot more than six days and seven nights, chipping away at the block, and you would finally stand back and appreciate your work.
And then realise that you ain't even close.
Shoan is the most normal man I know. No vices, no faults, no bursts of temper, no drunken bouts, no nothing.
He is also the best economist I know. Well OK, second best. Personally, I mean.
Quiet, reserved, fiercely loyal, well read, friendly, and a buddy.
And of all the friends I have known, past, present, and future... Shoan's the only guy who would choose an hour of studying over ten of drinking.
On behalf of all those friends, cheers mate.
That there then are the troika. Over the space of six days in October 2003, you'll get to meet all of them in greater detail still.
Comin' up next: "Here we go, boys and girls"
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Planning. And Then Some.
How does one plan for a Goa trip?
There is a certain gent in Bangalore, a roommate of mine, who might not get the gist of that question - but young, impressionable undergraduate collegians, especially people who have not ventured out on bikes before, tend to get their panties in a bunch.
As did we.
Ketan and I had been planning this trip for a while, but we had also been planning on becoming teachers of philosophy, bartenders, restaurateurs - realistic ambitions tended to float around when we conversed.
One can almost hear people who claim to be our friends say that we ourselves did some serious floating around when we conversed, but they, I assure you, are missing the point.
So anyways, to return to the tale at hand - there came a day when we were talking about this that and the other, and the Goa trip came about once again. One thing led to another - some say it was because TYBA was drawing to a close, others maintain that it happened because we were stone cold sober, but Ketan and I shook hands on the deal.
Come mid October, we would be on our way to Goa. On bikes.
We decided on mid October for a variety of reasons. One, we would have our mid term break then, so we wouldn't be missing any lectures.
Oh, Ashish. You crack me up.
Two, it would be the off season in Goa.
Three, it was around the first of October that we had this conversation.
So that gave us two weeks to prepare for the trip.
Planning for the trip involved a lot of planning.
Over the years, I've found that the best way to plan for trips is to go on them. But back then, every thing had to be documented, planned, written down and of course, argued over.
Under the pale yellow light that shone on a Sanewadi bench that hosted the annual conference of the locality's mosquitoes, Ketan and I planned for the trip. We budgeted, we made a list of items we would need, we decided on the route, we decided what time we would leave, what time we would reach. We planned on the clothes, the tool kit, the spares, the kind of glucose we would take along, the music we would include on the CD's we took along, and we planned the points in the trip we would stop to scratch our butts.
We took the bike (Ketan's bike) to a mechanic who spent a day and a half going over it with a microscope. He changed the brakes, the clutch plates, the levers, the cables and others parts on the bike that we didn't know existed back then.
Everybody who knew us was suddenly the resident expert on long bike rides. Right from an eight year old cousin to the old man behind the counter at the local Udupi restaurant, everybody had advice on what to wear, what to drink and how to pace ourselves. What route to take, where to stay, and what to do in Goa.
And naive idiots that we were, we drank it all in. We took notes, we listened, we nodded, and generally, paid more attention in those two weeks than we had in our entire academic careers.
No, I know. That's not saying much, but you get what I'm saying.
Girish asked if he could come along - and that was no problem. Shoan was offered the other seat available, but Mr. Focus had a CFA exam coming up, so...
Oy vey. Belated realisation. You guys might not know the gents in question, no?
Next post we'll have detailed biographies. Tongue in cheek and all. One's in New Zealand, one's in Amreeka and the other an avowed capitalist in Calcutta.
Far enough away for me to feel safe.
Up next: The Three Dudes.
There is a certain gent in Bangalore, a roommate of mine, who might not get the gist of that question - but young, impressionable undergraduate collegians, especially people who have not ventured out on bikes before, tend to get their panties in a bunch.
As did we.
Ketan and I had been planning this trip for a while, but we had also been planning on becoming teachers of philosophy, bartenders, restaurateurs - realistic ambitions tended to float around when we conversed.
One can almost hear people who claim to be our friends say that we ourselves did some serious floating around when we conversed, but they, I assure you, are missing the point.
So anyways, to return to the tale at hand - there came a day when we were talking about this that and the other, and the Goa trip came about once again. One thing led to another - some say it was because TYBA was drawing to a close, others maintain that it happened because we were stone cold sober, but Ketan and I shook hands on the deal.
Come mid October, we would be on our way to Goa. On bikes.
We decided on mid October for a variety of reasons. One, we would have our mid term break then, so we wouldn't be missing any lectures.
Oh, Ashish. You crack me up.
Two, it would be the off season in Goa.
Three, it was around the first of October that we had this conversation.
So that gave us two weeks to prepare for the trip.
Planning for the trip involved a lot of planning.
Over the years, I've found that the best way to plan for trips is to go on them. But back then, every thing had to be documented, planned, written down and of course, argued over.
Under the pale yellow light that shone on a Sanewadi bench that hosted the annual conference of the locality's mosquitoes, Ketan and I planned for the trip. We budgeted, we made a list of items we would need, we decided on the route, we decided what time we would leave, what time we would reach. We planned on the clothes, the tool kit, the spares, the kind of glucose we would take along, the music we would include on the CD's we took along, and we planned the points in the trip we would stop to scratch our butts.
We took the bike (Ketan's bike) to a mechanic who spent a day and a half going over it with a microscope. He changed the brakes, the clutch plates, the levers, the cables and others parts on the bike that we didn't know existed back then.
Everybody who knew us was suddenly the resident expert on long bike rides. Right from an eight year old cousin to the old man behind the counter at the local Udupi restaurant, everybody had advice on what to wear, what to drink and how to pace ourselves. What route to take, where to stay, and what to do in Goa.
And naive idiots that we were, we drank it all in. We took notes, we listened, we nodded, and generally, paid more attention in those two weeks than we had in our entire academic careers.
No, I know. That's not saying much, but you get what I'm saying.
Girish asked if he could come along - and that was no problem. Shoan was offered the other seat available, but Mr. Focus had a CFA exam coming up, so...
Oy vey. Belated realisation. You guys might not know the gents in question, no?
Next post we'll have detailed biographies. Tongue in cheek and all. One's in New Zealand, one's in Amreeka and the other an avowed capitalist in Calcutta.
Far enough away for me to feel safe.
Up next: The Three Dudes.
Onwards, You Philistines!
Blast from the past types se hai, peoples.
This here serialized production is the documentation of my first major trip.
I'd been to Bombay on the bike before I undertook the campaign I'm about to describe, and Ketan had been to Sinhagad.
Girish couldn't ride the bike and Shoan was not going to come along.
So among the four, the longest any one of us had achieved was 170 kms.
Mid October, 2003. Our last year in Fergusson, and a promise to selves that we would manage one trip before we got out into the big bad world.
And that, peoples, is how the "Go Goa" theme of my life took root.
What follows is a meandering, rambling, self-indulgent narrative that tells those who bother to read it the tale of how three idiots rode to Goa. Also the tale of how four idiots rode back.
It involves a Splendor (MH-12-AL-9832), a Yamaha (MH-12-G-4780), the four aforementioned nutcases, a waiter all of us would still like to kill, some of the most beautiful ghats in the country, late night driving, exhaustion, exhilaration, and hardly any ennui.
At least, in my opinion.
Comin' right up:
Episode I: "Dude! It's all in the planning, dude!"
This here serialized production is the documentation of my first major trip.
I'd been to Bombay on the bike before I undertook the campaign I'm about to describe, and Ketan had been to Sinhagad.
Girish couldn't ride the bike and Shoan was not going to come along.
So among the four, the longest any one of us had achieved was 170 kms.
Mid October, 2003. Our last year in Fergusson, and a promise to selves that we would manage one trip before we got out into the big bad world.
And that, peoples, is how the "Go Goa" theme of my life took root.
What follows is a meandering, rambling, self-indulgent narrative that tells those who bother to read it the tale of how three idiots rode to Goa. Also the tale of how four idiots rode back.
It involves a Splendor (MH-12-AL-9832), a Yamaha (MH-12-G-4780), the four aforementioned nutcases, a waiter all of us would still like to kill, some of the most beautiful ghats in the country, late night driving, exhaustion, exhilaration, and hardly any ennui.
At least, in my opinion.
Comin' right up:
Episode I: "Dude! It's all in the planning, dude!"
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Home
My first.
My home.
If I close my eyes and think of home, I see a black gate, with an arch of worn out branches over it. I see chipped flagstones leading up to black and grey steps, marked out in white. I see a latticed door, with a latticed window frame next to it - an empty bottle of Castrol 2T oil standing on the sill outside.
The doors open to a small room, done in green paint. The small, almost triangular room leads on to two different rooms.
One is my Appa's room. That is where I grew up. The room where my grandfather and I spent many an hour together. He taught me the joys of reading and the joys of listening. He would tell me stories in that room, stories that were at once rooted in reality and fantasy. Stories that built my imagination and stories that built my foundations.
That room was where a kid learnt about Noddy and Shivaji. A room where a kid got to know about his mother's trip to South India, and it was a room where the story of his own birth was told to him - tales that he will never forget.
The other door opens on to the living room. It has in it the old dining table. The table that was used to play cards, and the table that has seen many a meal being consumed - some in silence, some in angst; some in sadness, and many in happiness. The room also has my Appa's bed. He and I would lie in it together, watching India play some match or the other. I would wait for the advertisements, and he would wait for the cricket. Entire afternoons were spent that way.
Close to the telephone in that room would lie a selection of books - some in Marathi, most in English. Some would be borrowed from Popular Library, whilst others would have been borrowed from BCL.
On then, onwards near the television, where in the corner there resided (but doesn't now) a settee, done in red. You could curl up and go to sleep in it, easy as pie. The other side of the television was a little rectangular stool that was used for more purposes than it was designed for. As a temporary table for studying, as a dining table for the many tiny tots that the house has seen, as an imaginary castle to defend - oh, so many things.
Behind the two beds that forever lay parallel were two chairs. The last word in comfort, you could sprawl on them and drift away to Neverland in the blink of an eye. They would also face each other in eager contest when the carom table was brought out.
The little cupboard set in the bottomed out window near the dining table. Where the whiskey would be kept - as would be the peg measure. Up above it would be the rummy counters, the fine silver and the assorted odds and ends that the house had accumulated. Still above would be the thermoses, the fine cutlery, and in a small tin box - the finest of treasures - a small toy train that still runs.
Close your eyes and you can still see the other things that have defined that room. You can see the lady in barely any clothes hanging over the door that led to the kitchen, the clock hanging over the television, the rods hanging over the dining table, the forlorn lamp hanging in the middle of the room, festooned with a orphaned lampshade, the tiny attics over either bed, and most of all - the swing.
It would be put up only in the summer, right in between the two beds. Sitting on it, you could swing the entire length of the room, higher and higher, until you eventually reached the tube light over the dining table with your toes. Seriously.
Anju Mavshi's room, with the bed in the corner, the cupboards set in the walls and that little staircase that led to nowhere. The incredible coolness of that room, the incredible quietness.
And then the old kitchen, first with the old semi circular embankment against a small tap and the pitifully small platform. The wooden ledges that hid many a treat - cashew nuts carefully camouflaged beneath innocuous papads, dark chocolates stashed behind dabbas that were red in colour, with a white lid. The little storage rooms, where you had to bend down in order to enter them.
The verandah outside, that led to the bathroom and the loo. The bathroom earlier had a large copper tank, after which, Wasu Mama's washing machine was parked there. The red swing posts outside, which, from my earliest memories, never had a swing attached to them. From there, you could open the window to the small room that led off to the living room. A small storage room, here you could find a heavy table with a drawer that hid in it many a child's treasure. Next to it, under the stairway that led up top, hid another storage room. Full of nooks and crannies, is home.
I grew up there, right from my very first year. Every weekend, and almost all of the summer holidays would be spent there. We would go, my grandfather and I, from home to watch the pigeons being fed near the river. Sometimes to the house that was near the post office - it had a dog that both he and I were friends with. He would take me for long walks on the tekdi nearby. He taught me swimming at Tilak Tank, and at the age of six, I had completed the entire length of the old Tank - all 100 metres of it.
I remember the inordinate amount of pride I had that day.
I grew up in that house. A child became a boy, and a boy became a teen. A teen became an adolescent.
Appa died. Six years ago. My blackest memory of home.
Life moved on - I joined Fergusson college. Friends would come over, many a time.
Ostensibly for lunch, more often for a game of carom and somnolent slumber.
Ketan and I spent many an hour talking about Ayn Rand, about Greek philosophy, about mysticism, and quite literally anything and everything under the sun. It was that kind of an age.
Shoan and I spent many a day talking, arguing, debating and pontificating to each other about economics. We learnt the intricacies of mathematical economics, the arcane application of statistics to economics, and we learnt about economics itself.
Then I joined Gokhale. Two of the most memorable years of my life. I would come home for lunch during college when Aji was there, and Kshitij would often join me. Later, when no one would live there anymore, we would spend all of our days there.
Like I said, two of the best years of my life.
So many memories. All the good times, all the bad times. All associated with home.
Home to me, and home to three generations of my family before me. Home to my friends from Fergusson, and home to my friends from Gokhale. Home to the three biraadar log. All of us have lived our lives, in one way or the other, in that there home.
Shivchaya, Aji-Appancha ghar, Deccancha Ghar, Naani House.
Home.
It got sold a couple of days ago - home will soon be no more.
My home.
If I close my eyes and think of home, I see a black gate, with an arch of worn out branches over it. I see chipped flagstones leading up to black and grey steps, marked out in white. I see a latticed door, with a latticed window frame next to it - an empty bottle of Castrol 2T oil standing on the sill outside.
The doors open to a small room, done in green paint. The small, almost triangular room leads on to two different rooms.
One is my Appa's room. That is where I grew up. The room where my grandfather and I spent many an hour together. He taught me the joys of reading and the joys of listening. He would tell me stories in that room, stories that were at once rooted in reality and fantasy. Stories that built my imagination and stories that built my foundations.
That room was where a kid learnt about Noddy and Shivaji. A room where a kid got to know about his mother's trip to South India, and it was a room where the story of his own birth was told to him - tales that he will never forget.
The other door opens on to the living room. It has in it the old dining table. The table that was used to play cards, and the table that has seen many a meal being consumed - some in silence, some in angst; some in sadness, and many in happiness. The room also has my Appa's bed. He and I would lie in it together, watching India play some match or the other. I would wait for the advertisements, and he would wait for the cricket. Entire afternoons were spent that way.
Close to the telephone in that room would lie a selection of books - some in Marathi, most in English. Some would be borrowed from Popular Library, whilst others would have been borrowed from BCL.
On then, onwards near the television, where in the corner there resided (but doesn't now) a settee, done in red. You could curl up and go to sleep in it, easy as pie. The other side of the television was a little rectangular stool that was used for more purposes than it was designed for. As a temporary table for studying, as a dining table for the many tiny tots that the house has seen, as an imaginary castle to defend - oh, so many things.
Behind the two beds that forever lay parallel were two chairs. The last word in comfort, you could sprawl on them and drift away to Neverland in the blink of an eye. They would also face each other in eager contest when the carom table was brought out.
The little cupboard set in the bottomed out window near the dining table. Where the whiskey would be kept - as would be the peg measure. Up above it would be the rummy counters, the fine silver and the assorted odds and ends that the house had accumulated. Still above would be the thermoses, the fine cutlery, and in a small tin box - the finest of treasures - a small toy train that still runs.
Close your eyes and you can still see the other things that have defined that room. You can see the lady in barely any clothes hanging over the door that led to the kitchen, the clock hanging over the television, the rods hanging over the dining table, the forlorn lamp hanging in the middle of the room, festooned with a orphaned lampshade, the tiny attics over either bed, and most of all - the swing.
It would be put up only in the summer, right in between the two beds. Sitting on it, you could swing the entire length of the room, higher and higher, until you eventually reached the tube light over the dining table with your toes. Seriously.
Anju Mavshi's room, with the bed in the corner, the cupboards set in the walls and that little staircase that led to nowhere. The incredible coolness of that room, the incredible quietness.
And then the old kitchen, first with the old semi circular embankment against a small tap and the pitifully small platform. The wooden ledges that hid many a treat - cashew nuts carefully camouflaged beneath innocuous papads, dark chocolates stashed behind dabbas that were red in colour, with a white lid. The little storage rooms, where you had to bend down in order to enter them.
The verandah outside, that led to the bathroom and the loo. The bathroom earlier had a large copper tank, after which, Wasu Mama's washing machine was parked there. The red swing posts outside, which, from my earliest memories, never had a swing attached to them. From there, you could open the window to the small room that led off to the living room. A small storage room, here you could find a heavy table with a drawer that hid in it many a child's treasure. Next to it, under the stairway that led up top, hid another storage room. Full of nooks and crannies, is home.
I grew up there, right from my very first year. Every weekend, and almost all of the summer holidays would be spent there. We would go, my grandfather and I, from home to watch the pigeons being fed near the river. Sometimes to the house that was near the post office - it had a dog that both he and I were friends with. He would take me for long walks on the tekdi nearby. He taught me swimming at Tilak Tank, and at the age of six, I had completed the entire length of the old Tank - all 100 metres of it.
I remember the inordinate amount of pride I had that day.
I grew up in that house. A child became a boy, and a boy became a teen. A teen became an adolescent.
Appa died. Six years ago. My blackest memory of home.
Life moved on - I joined Fergusson college. Friends would come over, many a time.
Ostensibly for lunch, more often for a game of carom and somnolent slumber.
Ketan and I spent many an hour talking about Ayn Rand, about Greek philosophy, about mysticism, and quite literally anything and everything under the sun. It was that kind of an age.
Shoan and I spent many a day talking, arguing, debating and pontificating to each other about economics. We learnt the intricacies of mathematical economics, the arcane application of statistics to economics, and we learnt about economics itself.
Then I joined Gokhale. Two of the most memorable years of my life. I would come home for lunch during college when Aji was there, and Kshitij would often join me. Later, when no one would live there anymore, we would spend all of our days there.
Like I said, two of the best years of my life.
So many memories. All the good times, all the bad times. All associated with home.
Home to me, and home to three generations of my family before me. Home to my friends from Fergusson, and home to my friends from Gokhale. Home to the three biraadar log. All of us have lived our lives, in one way or the other, in that there home.
Shivchaya, Aji-Appancha ghar, Deccancha Ghar, Naani House.
Home.
It got sold a couple of days ago - home will soon be no more.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Yo Ho Ho
Dinner done, and a paper tomorrow.
No studying done, no plans of starting anytime soon.
Half the people you know are up burning the midnight oil, and the other half are snoring away, alarms set for three in the morning.
Revision to be done, no? NO?
Haan, then?
And in every college across India, for the last three generations running, and for many a decade to come, there is a band of people who keep the flag flying. They steal out into the dark inky night, with assorted notes, and on some memorably desperate occasions, assorted coins - on borrowed bikes which have ten rupees worth of fuel in them - and rescue for themselves from the officious clutches of society a short stubby bottle, filled to the neck with a black nectar that has in it a sweet sickly smell, and a picture of a fairly ecstatic monk in the front.
Reality check. If you have a smile on your face right now, read on. If not, you set the bloody alarm for three, didn't you?
This is about Old Monk, peoples. The rum that helped me, many a dude and dudette I know, and, I'm sure, many more I don't know but empathize with, get through academia. We drink fine liquors today, and I know the difference between a single malt and Royal Stag - but up until this day, when mention of that legendary Meakin brand comes up - the eyes go misty eyed and the eyes go dreamy eyed. Much sighing and shrugging of shoulders.
Much flashbacking to the days of yore, when plastic glasses would be filled with a leetle beet of rum, followed by a splash of coke and two splashes of water. The strong, sweet taste, backed by the fizz of the cola, and tempered by the smoothness of water.
The first peg, which would be slow and painfully sober.
The second, which would be somewhat happier, and somebody would switch on the music.
The third, which would be well on the way to Heppy Heppy Land, which is when the music would get loud, the people would be dancing, and mirth and lightness was all around.
The fifth, when chaos was king.
The sixth onwards is plis to be experienced, no descriptions possible because half have been censored and the other half I do not remember.
But yeah, been there done that, no biraadars?
May the Good Lord bless the imbibers, and if I was in your place, I would replace the weekend's programme with a bottle of that there same Old Monk.
For old time's sake.
That's what's happening this weekend out here, and it is the open house types se hai. Plis to be coming over.
Cheers, all.
No studying done, no plans of starting anytime soon.
Half the people you know are up burning the midnight oil, and the other half are snoring away, alarms set for three in the morning.
Revision to be done, no? NO?
Haan, then?
And in every college across India, for the last three generations running, and for many a decade to come, there is a band of people who keep the flag flying. They steal out into the dark inky night, with assorted notes, and on some memorably desperate occasions, assorted coins - on borrowed bikes which have ten rupees worth of fuel in them - and rescue for themselves from the officious clutches of society a short stubby bottle, filled to the neck with a black nectar that has in it a sweet sickly smell, and a picture of a fairly ecstatic monk in the front.
Reality check. If you have a smile on your face right now, read on. If not, you set the bloody alarm for three, didn't you?
This is about Old Monk, peoples. The rum that helped me, many a dude and dudette I know, and, I'm sure, many more I don't know but empathize with, get through academia. We drink fine liquors today, and I know the difference between a single malt and Royal Stag - but up until this day, when mention of that legendary Meakin brand comes up - the eyes go misty eyed and the eyes go dreamy eyed. Much sighing and shrugging of shoulders.
Much flashbacking to the days of yore, when plastic glasses would be filled with a leetle beet of rum, followed by a splash of coke and two splashes of water. The strong, sweet taste, backed by the fizz of the cola, and tempered by the smoothness of water.
The first peg, which would be slow and painfully sober.
The second, which would be somewhat happier, and somebody would switch on the music.
The third, which would be well on the way to Heppy Heppy Land, which is when the music would get loud, the people would be dancing, and mirth and lightness was all around.
The fifth, when chaos was king.
The sixth onwards is plis to be experienced, no descriptions possible because half have been censored and the other half I do not remember.
But yeah, been there done that, no biraadars?
May the Good Lord bless the imbibers, and if I was in your place, I would replace the weekend's programme with a bottle of that there same Old Monk.
For old time's sake.
That's what's happening this weekend out here, and it is the open house types se hai. Plis to be coming over.
Cheers, all.
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