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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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.