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!"

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."

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.

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.