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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
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.
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