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"

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.

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!"

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.

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.

From the Deep End of The Pool

WARNING: ANYTHING BUT EPICUREAN

Umm, seriously. What is about to come up ain't exactly light reading, so if you're looking for the blog world's equivalent of a popcorn flick, plis to be coming back later. Today's not a good day for that sort of thing.

I remember standing outside Ruparel college, back in 2000. School had gotten over, and college was a brand new thing. I was worried about not knowing anybody, about the fact that the school uniform, and the ease of familiarity it bought along with it, was now a thing of the past. I was worried about the fact that I would now have to study new things, about the fact that I would have to make new friends. And all that jazz.
I knew life until then, and I did not know about my life up ahead. And therefore a little scared.

It's not the same story today.

I have known my life until now, and I know what is in store up ahead. Not the particulars, but the pattern. And therefore not scared, but a little depressed.
Life sheds the leaves of the autumn of our youth. I and the buddy clan I have, that is. The spring of adulthood is here, but the rain is gloomy and the air hangs heavy.
Things might, and probably will, clear up in the years to come, but now - today, the prospect of a mature life is a leetle bit sobering.
Drinking binges ain't exactly top of the list anymore. It's not that they won't happen, but they won't be as eagerly anticipated as they were before.
People younger than us will venture out on motorcycles and we'll know the fear I know my parents knew. Relationships will fructify into marriages, and others that we thought to be a shoo-in for matrimony will wither away - for keeps.
Folks back home will grow old and old Hippocrates will become a rather more frequent visitor.
Speaking of which, there will come a time when the doc nods disapprovingly at our tummies too.
Dreams of a home of our own will now be given a tadka of reality, and the dish may not be as tasty as we had dreamed it would be. Loans and cars, amounts outstanding on the plastic in our wallets and career speedbreakers. Hell, career breakers, for that matter.
Some of this has already happened, and some will, in the not so distant future.
We see ourselves growing up, and while that may be a good thing, saying adieu to the days of carefree laughter ain't topping my list of things to do.
But it must be done. If not now, then later. Soon enough.
Pack your bag, children. Peter Pan don't exist.





Umm.
P.S. types se hai.
While that and all that may be true (and it is), a cold beer is still a cold beer.
And buddies are still buddies.
All deserts have their oases, and my refrigerator has a coupla cans still.
Literally as well.

Heppy Budday!!!

One whole year of attempting to entertain the world with my rantings, my ravings, and the odd modicum of common sense.
A year when the blog, and I, shifted base from Pune to Bangalore.
A year in which I discovered Pecos, discovered Sahib Sindh Sultan, and the white hats that the Bangalore police wear. Which, on reflection, is about all that can be said for the city. Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad place at all - but this is about all that's better than Pune. A point that I may have occasionally touched upon over the last year or so on this page.
A year in which I discovered that I can ride a bike when Bacchus is in complete control of my faculties - and I certainly am not.
A year in which I discovered that I can ride the bike when in deep slumber (also a year in which I found out that Monsieur Castellino most certainly can NOT, but we'll let that pass), and most importantly, I can stay alive when we combine the two scenarios.
Not that I intend to do anything of the sort ever again.
Ever.
Mother promise.
My faith in beer, and all things Epicurean has been reaffirmed this year, and for the record, there is no place in Bangalore that makes tiramisu or mousse better than Ameeta (Amya, hint, hint!!!).
The two Amreekan biraadar log made thier annual pilgrimage to Dharti Maa, and both reunions were fittingly non-sober. I suspect there may be the odd flare-up with both of them for having called them by their correct nomenclature ( for they claim they're anything but Amreekan), but now what to do. Anything west of the Juhu Chowpatty...
The past twelve months have included one crazy ass trip to Mysore, one epic journey to Goa, one solo ride to Pune, and my first Bullet ride (to Chikmaglur).
Oh yeah. Also the year in which I discovered the true reason for earning money. Buying Bullets.
The memories of Gokhale and Pune grow ever more acute with every passing day. The smallest event, the most inconsequential of triggers can bring so many memories flooding back, and come to think of it, that's no bad thing. Memories are nice things, because they serve to remind you of the blast that was the past, and also because they give you something to work towards. Onwards to Pune, biraadar log - Dream On!
Raindrops fell on my head through the year, as they did on the pates of most of my mates, but the sun shone through again.
We got by with the help of our friends, in time honoured fashion.
Mallya pitched in as well. :)
Lots more that happened, and lots more that the Man up above has scripted for us, I'm sure (achcha?!)... but all in all, the jury's verdict is:

Life's Good.
Here's to another year of merry blogging.

Cheers, All.

Oh Pune!

It's the middle of May here in Bangalore. It's supposed to be hot and humid, sultry and sweaty, and up until yesterday, Bangalore lived up to it's billing.
But yesterday, dark clouds peeped over the horizon, hesitantly at first, and with gay abandon once they figured that they were being welcomed by all and sundry. It rained in the evening, and today has been anything but a midsummer's day.
It's been overcast, windy, grey and cool. It's got adrak chai and kanda bhaji written all over it. That kind of a day.
The kind of day when you look out the window and decide to bunk college. The kind of day when you decide to take the bike out for a spin.
Reach collge (all idiots who think that bunking college is about not going to college - go die), drink the day's first cuppa, and if that's your thing, the day's first sutta.
Think and ponder, chat and discuss, debate and pontificate. Get your gang up and ready, fill her up, and set off on the road to Sinhagad. Across Kothrud, over the new bridge next to Toll Hospital, onto the highway. Past the city, past Abhiruchi, across the glorious expanse of the Khadakwasla backwaters, with Peacock Bay over on the other side. On and on, until you reach the start of the Sinhagad Ghat.
Bikes in first gear now, a maximum of second. The cool wind on your face, maybe some drops of rain. The fresh smell of that newly wet earth, the almost dried out yellowish grass swaying in the breeze. The ever increasing vista, growing in scope and grandeur with every twist and turn of the ghat. The huddled vendors at the side of the road, with black tarpaulins flung over hastily erected bamboos - with their wood fires and and aluminium kettles and those glasses. A lady at the back, throwing in fresh batches of freshly cut onions dipped in that heavenly batter - glorious kanda bhaji with lasanachi chutney - moksha at 10 bucks a plate.
And finally the summit, windswept and bare - the howling wind in your ears and the incredible coolness on your face. You hug the jacket that you're wearing a little closer, and grin at each other in complete understanding.
The trek up to the very top, past the caves, past the darwaja, past the gardens, up to Dev Taaki. A glass of the impossibly cool water, and maybe a cup of tea. Another plate of kanda bhaji, now that I think of it.
And then the long drive back down, past the same tea vendors, back into town.
Although I vote for a spot of makyacha kanis (ear of corn) near Khadakwasla, with a leetle beet of nimbu, a leetle beet of salt, and a leetle beet of red chili powder. No?
The ride back into town complete, we make a temporary halt at Good Luck. Lunch would be a plate of Mutton Biryani, with a Bread Pudding to follow. Maybe a cup of chai, feefty feefty.
Now I want it to rain all the way to the hostel. Reach there thoroughly drenched, change into something dry, play a couple of games of TT... and in a couple of hours... good night.
Dedicated to all the Punekars I know. They might (and probably do) hate me for having written this... but now what to do.
Incurably homesick and proud of it.
Cheers, all.