Born Free

This post, dear reader, is an indirect result of reading this.

Getting a salary at the end of the month is a truly wonderful thing. There's money in the bank, and there's pubs and restaurants and bookstores and theaters and motorcycles and so many other things. All of which may not be quite as within reach without the dog tag around your neck.

On the other hand, there's Mondays. There's appraisals, politics, charts in Excel, deliverables, client calls, presentations, Microsoft Powerpoint, client visits and an invisible chain that binds you effortlessly to your desk - five days a week. Your time is not yours, your work is not yours and you are the company's.

As with most other things in life, there's the good; and there's the bad.

The trouble is, the salary is just too good a deal to pass up. The safety, the guarantee, the respect that only comes out of being able to write "Salaried" under Occupation when you fill up a form is too enticing a safety net. Late Friday nights and slow Monday afternoons are pin pricks that cause momentary discomfort, that's all.

Every now and then, though, life throws up a twist in the tale, and a brief window of opportunity shows itself fleetingly. Not once or twice, upon reflection; I've had quite a few chances - and perhaps so have you. You've come within the proverbial inch of upping and doing it - hang the consequences. But as with me, perhaps the fever has subsided for you as well. Reason has returned to it's throne, and common sense has once again won the day.

But as with me, perhaps the dream lives on for you as well. It festers and it throbs. It subsides when the bonus is announced, and it goes dormant upon finally getting that promotion. Terminal decline is almost achieved with the onset of EMI-itis.

It lives on though; it can't die, you see, for it is the real you. And opportunity keeps knocking, perhaps a little more feebly each time, but it knocks.

And for the umpteenth time, I stand at yet another crossroads, and for the umpteenth time I wonder. I start to take the plunge, and I hesitate. Well meaning friends, relatives, colleagues and acquaintances offer advise. As, I suppose, would I if the position were reversed.

As were you, dear reader, I too was born free. I too have shackled myself, and I too hesitate to listen to my heart.

I'll let you know how it turns out - one way or the other.

In the meantime -  pray for me, brother.

Cheers.

It's Time

I love the place.

Friends are there, brothers are there, family is there.

I grew up there. There is joy within when I go back, and there is sadness within when I leave.

This time around, I intend to stay.

My city, my home.

Peoples, Kulkarni wants to go back home.

A whiff of history

It doesn't exist anymore, unfortunately. Both of them don't, actually.
Long gone and consigned to the realm of nostalgia.

Try telling that to a Punekar, though.

Till date, if he is to direct you past that grand old landmark, he'll still say, "Go past University Circle..."
Or, if he has taken a dislike to you (and given that he is a Grand Old Punekar, I wouldn't bet against it), he might well say, "Go past the fountain at University Circle..."

And the trouble, dear old friends, is that there is neither a circle, nor a fountain, at the confluence of Baner Road, Pashan Road and Ganeshkhind Road. Not any more.

But there used to be. Ages ago, back when you could find parking space on Fergusson College Road, back when going to Camp meant a day's expedition, and back when Parihar Chowk was the very outer reach of Pune City... back then, there was a roundabout outside Pune University. At the centre of that roundabout was a fountain.

In the grand old whimsical tradition of Puneri bureaucracy, it would spout water only for an hour in the evenings. In the equally grand old tradition of the Puneri populace, visits to the fountain would be timed to coincide with the first gush of water. Regular tourist spot, it was.

Which leads us to our topic du jour.

Once the gallivanting around the fountain was done, the genteel people of Pune, family in tow, would head towards the start of Pashan Road. Where, in unbroken line, there stood a host of tapris. Some sold anda bhurji, some sold ice creams. Some offered fruits and juices, while some vended pav bhaji. One particularly outstanding specimen - and this is sure to strike a chord with every Grand Old Punekar - sold bhajis out of an old dilapidated van.

Come evening time, there would be a regular rush at the place. People would park their bikes on the other side of the street, and youngsters from the stalls would rush at you, thrusting menus into your hand, encouraging you to go ahead and feast. Families, professionals, lovers, children - all would congregate there to partake of the varied choices on offer.

The stalls on the other side would be lit up by now, gaudy neon signs lit up in blue, red and green. Business would go on until around 10.30, after which the road would finally fall silent, until the next evening came around.

The stall I remember the most, though, was a Chinese stall. The food wasn't different from the fare offered by the other Chinese stalls in the vicinity - as you would expect. Nothing about it, in fact, was very different.

But you know how it is. You tend to pick a favourite, and stick with it. And so it was with me. Having gone there a couple of times, I kept going to the same stall every time. I'd have the usual fare: a bowl of soup, and either noodles or rice with some gravy.

But the thing that I remember the most was that the soup was for 12 bucks a bowl. 10 if you were a vegetarian. A point that I remember with some poignancy when I pay 100 bucks for a bowl of authentic, lightly flavoured, lemongrass infused, flavorful soup at some fancy-shmancy restaurant today.

And today, when I walk past the very pretty, very pointless flyover, past the beautifully done up Pashan Road, with all smooth tarmac and working signals and all, I still get a twinge of nostalgia.

And I'd still rather have my chicken hot and sour at Fountain Spot on a cold Pune evening, split one by two with a buddy.

Tchah.

My kingdom for a vada pav

Do you know the kind of cold that hits your face when you step outdoors?
It is like a thousand pin pricks on your face. It is shockingly cold, and it awakens your soul. And in anticipation, there appears a smile on your face.
There is a moderately stiff breeze, and you can hear the rustle in the trees. It's just about going to be dusk, and you know the night is going to be cold. Even though you have a sweater on, you know it'll take a while for the warmth to accumulate. And the anticipation of the warmth suffices for the moment, while the cold makes itself felt.
Your shoes crunch gravel as you walk away from the building. There's not too many people left around, but you're all right with that. You walk under the streetlights; they're just about making their presence felt. It is a cold wintry evening, and life could not be better.
And you walk towards the tapri. There's a small crowd there already - residents from nearby apartments, collegians, people coming back from an evening walk, regular all sorts. They're all huddled together in a loosely knit group, adorned with sweaters, jackets, scarves and mufflers, making inconsequential conversation as they wait.
You join the group, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at the regulars. And you wait.
The first splatter of water hits the oil that has been heating up in a large black vessel, the sound immediately focusing interest on matters at hand. The kindly old man at the vessel smiles a little, indicating that business is now under way.
One by one, little patties of boiled, mashed potatoes, interspersed with finely chopped onion, green chillies and garlic are deftly coated with besan, and slipped into the hot, spluttering oil. Turning rapidly golden, the little patties puff up a little, immersed in their own little sea of foam in the oil. They're overturned once, before the entire batch is taken out of the oil, and onto an old newspaper.
Another man takes each one of these, and puts them in fresh pav, applying green chilly chutney and tamarind chutney on the one side, and a fiery red garlicky, dry chutney on the other.
These are then deposited, in rapid succession, either singly or in doubles, on small multi-colored plastic plates. For company, there is a lightly fried green chilly, coated with salt.
And then you take your garma-garam vada pav, with the chilly by the side, and you walk a little to the side. You hold it in your hand, and you take a little nibble. Extremely hot, you blow on the little morsel in your mouth. The vada in your had exudes steam, and your palate is a confluence of varied spices - the chilly and the tamarind and the potatoes; all commingling wonderfully. All set off by the soft chewy pav, and a better combination is not be had on Mother Earth.
And then you partake of hot chai in a chipped glass. At three bucks a glass, the chai is warm in the palm of your hands. You stand by the road, watching the world pass by over the rim of your glass. There's elaichi in there, and there's cardamom. Hot and strong, the tea has been bubbling over for ages before it has finally been wrung out into the copper kettle, and then into your glass.
 The spices have not yet left your tongue, and each sip of the strong milky tea scalds your taste-buds, still alight from their battles with the vada pav. You take a sip at a time, involuntary tears springing into your eyes, while a wonderful warmth settles in your tummy.
And finally, you sit on your bike, the evening's repast done, to head away from the tapri. Night has fallen while you were engaged otherwise, and it is colder still.
You, however, are impervious.
You've just had a Puneri vada pav and chai.

Thank Me Later...

But for now, click here .

And enjoy.

So long then.

O sport, you cruel cruel mistress.

What is sport really? Battle, that's what it is. A civilized one, to be sure. No blood is shed, and no lives are lost. But sport, at the end of the day, is civilization's response to our innate need to compete. To fight, to pit oneself against the best there is. To engage in a duel, and to emerge victorious. And to do it in gentlemanly fashion - to do it with sportsmanship.

A good editor, in the interests of his mistress - brevity - could have shortened that paragraph to but two words. Anil Kumble.

For to a generation of Indians, Anil Kumble epitomised all that is sports. He embodied grit, perseverance, sweat, gumption, guts, toil and victory. For if you close your eyes and think of Kumble, you think of the man striding forward, fist clenched and hand raised; having just claimed yet another wicket.

He had not the guile, nor the class of Warne. He had not the ability to bewitch batsman like Murali did. And verily it was true; Prasad spun the ball more than he did.

But the batsman facing him knew this much - that no matter how many runs on board, no matter the score, no matter the state of the innings, match or series; Anil Kumble would be at the top of his run up, twirling the ball, gritting his teeth, and waiting.

Broken jaw, broken fingers, stitches, bandages and painkillers. But Anil Kumble would be there, waiting to bowl one more ball, to take one more wicket. Because Anil Kumble simply did not know better. His nature was to fight, one more time.

But no more. Having showed the way in a career that ranged from Alan Lamb to Mitchell Johnson, he has finally hung up his boots.

Indian cricket is immeasurably the poorer for it.

Well played, Anil. Well played.

Arre But - Part I

Ladies and Gentlemen,

And the creeps who call themselves my friends,

I'm going to get married on the 23rd of November, 2008.

And as an aspiring writer, I know that I've goofed up. You're supposed to build up to the climax,  you're not supposed to start with it. Which, of course, is exactly what I've gone and done - once you've let that particular cat out of the bag, there really is very little left to write about.

Sort of like all of philosophy being nothing but a footnote to Plato, only a lot more cataclysmic.

Still, be that as it may, it was important to be frank and manly and get that off my chest. Right at the outset, as it were. No beating around the bush, no dilly-dallying. Out with it and all that.

So. Yes, I'm getting married. Traipsing down the aisle, getting into holy wedlock, catching the tiger by the tail.

And you, my devoted, loyal readership; you will be treated to a ringside view of the entire circus. You'll meet the bride-in-waiting (Vasundhara Sen, known to all and sundry by her nom-de-battleaxe - Boshu), you'll meet both the families, the many delighted shopkeepers in Delhi and Pune, the rest of the ensemble (who, it must be said, is looking forward to the whole thing with disgustingly ghoulish delight) and it will all culminate in a picture of I in a dhoti.

And by God, if that is not bait, I don't know what is.

Keep an eye out for these yarns - if past evidence is anything to go by, Kulkarni will be dishing up some entertainment for sure.

"Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up" - Joseph Barth

Home. Now and forever.

She lies sprawled in the shadow of the Sahyadris. Around two hundred kilometers south of that ugly megapolis, and infinitely cooler, quieter and more relaxed.

She is growing with time, and that is inevitable. She is not aging as well as she might, and that is sad.

She is sarcastic, she is biting.

She is getting colder by the day. There will be biting winds, and there will be chilly nights. Warm cozy blankets, and the smell of moth balls as they're removed from the trunks. A nip in the air, and sweaters on morning walks. Involuntary shivers on the bike, and speedometers frosted over with dew in the mornings.

She is getting more crowded with time. The traffic is well nigh unbearable. Piled up vehicles, and ugly, garish malls. But the lanes are still leafy, and they still sleep in the still of the afternoon. Dappled sunlight still filters through in the quiet that three p.m. produces.

She still has tapris that make wonderful chai, and she still has tapris that make vada pavs with just the right amount of chili, garlic and coriander. The red dry chutney, and the fried chillies coated with salt.

She still has my family, and she still has some of my friends. She still has my Gokhale. It'll be three years soon, since she and I have temporarily parted ways, and she waits patiently for my return. As she does for the return of every son who left her reluctantly.

She, the Queen of the Deccan, will be visited by one of her own over the coming weekend.

Correction: two of her own. And both of us can't wait.

Pune!

Monday Meri Jaan.

Seven in the evening on Monday. In office. Another hour to go.

Satan exists, for only he could have created this.

Money For Nothing

And chicks for free, while you're at it.

Continuing with the alarming of trend that self has displayed; we attempt here to further intellectualize the blog.

We do it, of course, in true blue Gokhale fashion - watch the video, and thank me later. Cheers.

Being

Grey tarmac, the open road.

 

Green foliage, a stream of wind roars

 

In my ears and

 

Villages pass me by, one hut

 

At a time. Children stare

 

In frank curiosity, others more

 

Circumspect. Now open plains and

 

Now steep wooded curves. Dark

 

And overcast. Rain overhead and

 

Darker horizons. The silent coast;

 

Quieter hinterland. Border check posts;

 

free highways. Old trucks;

 

New cars. A solitary bike - mine. A smile.

 

Aching shoulders and weary knees. Bloodshot

 

Eyes and grimy face. Tired body and

 

Refreshed mind. Incomplete odometer;

 

Yearning for home. Happiness.

 

Grey tarmac, the open road

 

 

That Little State That Neighbours Karnataka and Maharashtra

You can't (at any rate, I can't) write about Goa. Too much effort.

Finance; And Then There Were None

Life Beyond Gokhale prides itself on being wonderfully non-academic.

It hates all things head-scratching-inducing. It always will.

Still, being somewhat of a somewhat trained economist, I cannot resist pointing you here . Please do not bother clicking unless you are interested in knowing why the business section of your newspaper seems to break into fresh hives everyday.

But if you are, you will not find a more lucid passage, explaining it all. Wah Wah! types.

And now on to a far more interesting topic - albeit a rather poignant one.

One's gone and said adieu , and now we wait with baited, and resigned breath. Cricket's not going to be the same again.

Belladonna

Read this, in order to read this.

"Bella donnas on the high street
Her breasts upon the off beat
And the stalls are just the side shows
Victorianas old clothes
And yes her jeans are tight now
She gotta travel light now
Shes gotta tear up all her roots now"
                                                             - Portobello Belle, Dire Straits

I call my motorcycle, a military green 1999 Bullet, The Belladonna.

Belladonna is, among other cheerful things, a deadly nightshade and a fading American porn star.Etymologically, however, it means "Fair Lady" - with a slightly negative connotation, since it also refers to a poison extracted from the belladonna plant.

And although I did not know all this when I got the bike, she's turned out to be all of that and more.

Seen here in quiet repose, the Belladonna became a part of my life in March 2007. 

And ladies and gentlemen, I'll have you know that since then, she's been an absolute bitch. 

Acquired: March 2007.

First breakdown: April 2007

In the garage from: April 2007

To: June 2007

Second Breakdown: November 2007 (Although a certain $%$%^$% was responsible for that)

Third Breakdown: February 2008

Accelarator Cable Snapped: June 2008

Induction Coil Down: July 2008

In fact, the pic that you see up there was taken after her first breakdown, on a trip to Chikmaglur.

But a true lover of the Belladonna is helpless, you see. He trusts her no matter what, and he believes. He truly believes. And well, what the hell, at the end of it all, it doesn't matter. Although he knows that she will collapse, and she will fail him, he will abide by her. He will ride on.

 

And so at three in the afternoon, on the 30th of September, 2008, Kulkarni and his loyal steed left Bangalore, to embark on her longest journey yet. At least 800 kms of solid riding to come, and self, as usual, was going to wing it on nothing more than a prayer.

Out of the charming, congested, catastrophic city that is Bangalore at 5, truly on the highway at 6.

Smooth roads all the  way from Tumkur to Chitradurga, and she belts along at 80. On and on and on.

Ranebennur at 11 in the night, where an attempt at slumber is made. But a wonderful concotion of adrenalin and mosquitoes render that a doomed attempt. On and on, having crossed the pothole that calls itself Davangere. Haveri at around one in the morning, and Hubli about an hour after that. Fog in the air, a nip in the air, a remarkably well-behaved engine, and a shivering Kulkarni.

Finally, at around three in the morning, I get off the highway and collapse onto a bed somewhere in Belgavi.

Only to be woken up at 7.30 by Girish, and his non-existent bus driver.

And so on to Kolhapur, from where on in, bhaisaab tells it far better than I could.

But the Belladonna rode like the wind, and she did not fail me once. Nearly two years after wooing her, she finally relented - and I'm, as I always was, in love.

"Bella donnas in the jungle
But she aint no garden flower
These aint no distress in the tower
Oh, bella donna walks
Bella donna taking a stroll"

                                         - Portobello Belle, Dire Straits

Umm say, bro - there can be more than two players in a jugalbandi, no?

You think he might be interested in describing a leetle beet of Goa?

Alto!

I go.
I go to Goa.

Many tales in the offing, and here's a thought: how about making it a jugalbandi, bhaisaab ?

Your turn, if you wish.

Onwards, you Philistines!

Good, But Not Quite Perfect

U2 got the song right, but they got the day wrong.

In Which We Do Not Sleep. Can't Sleep. And Fly.

So there we are, in adjacent berths, at 9 in the night.
Ensconced in warm blankets, a pleasant chill created by the AC, and the bus starts.
Limbs pleasantly tired, droopy eyes, murmured good nights, and the prospect of eight hours of the dreamless.

We hit the first speedbreaker. A rude jolt passes through the body - but it's not too bad, the bus isn't really travelling yet. Both of us open our eyes, wonder what the hell that was, and go back to sleep.

And then we hit the first pothole with the bus going decently fast. The same rude jolt through the body, accompanied by the two of us achieving levitation - effortlessly. One second after that, we crashed back onto our berths. We groaned, and looked at each other and laughed.

I mean, there we were - nearly 24 hours in the saddle, 900 kms done, and all we wanted to do was sleep. Instead, here we were, in the last berths, right at the very back, and being thrown about mercilessly. Ha ha ha.

Until we hit the next speedbreaker. Rude jolt, levitation, crash back onto berth. Ouch.

And then the pain of having to WAIT for the next pothole starts. You lie on your berth, eyes wide awake, seemingly comatose. But all you're doing is lying there, body taut, waiting for the next one...

AND there it is. Jolt, Levitate, Crash, Ouch, Wait.

JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW.

JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW.

Brief nap for an hour or so, when the road is mercifully smooth.

JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW.

Doze off again... JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW. JLCOW.

I mean, do you get the picture, or should I go over that once more?

And so we landed in Jalgaon, tired to the bone, at six in the morning. Got into a rickshaw, mumbled our way to the lodge where a bed awaited us - one that was not a trampoline - and slept.

Attended the wedding, and tried to get a bus back to Pune - only to realise that there are no buses to Pune until ten at night.

What we could do, instead, is take an ST up until Aurangabad, and take a bus from there to Pune.

And what is an ST, you ask?

Right. Riiiight.

Awful, Awful Monday

Father Time, that daft bugger,
Is fast asleep again
The clock has got intertia-itis
It's Monday once again.

I'm lazy and I'm lethargic,
I'm fugged and I'm frustrated,
I'm groaning and I'm grumpy,
This verse is awful and alliterated

Blech and blooh and blah
Projects, presentations and plans
Due dates and deliverables
This too, awful and alliterated

O blasted first day of the week
Go! And never come again,
I know, I know. Inevitable...
Monday will come again.

The French, they say it the best,
As if it was meant to be,
Monday, in their genius language
Is referred to as Lundi.

Goa

The mind awakens before the eyes open.

The last dream successfully merges into reality, as they always manage to, and you wake up in a small room.

There’s a fan whirring manfully up there, and bhaisaab is asleep, his back turned towards you, snoring away loudly. You stretch, you scratch. You try to sleep a little more, but you’re done. Ah well.

You get up, check the time. It’s eleven in the morning. Hmmm. A leisurely crap, a glance at self in the mirror. There’s a stubble there, but that does not mean it’s time to shave. A cursory session with toothpaste and toothbrush, and you’re outta there.

Bhaisaab is up and sitting on the edge of the bed. Palms facing downward on the bed, neck hung low, shoulders bunched up. Classic hangover signs, you think – and you say so.

Bhaisaab grunts. Gets ready himself. And when he steps out of the bathroom, he looks a lot better. Spare change of clothes each, swimwear in bag, and out you go.

The sun hits you first, making you squint. The wind hits you next, the salty, tangy sea breeze. You plod your way towards the beach. The path slowly gives way to sand. It makes walking difficult. Your feet sink in the sand, and the white and blue chappals throw up a fine spray of sand behind.

The first trickle of sweat makes itself felt on the nape of your neck.

And then you spot the sea in the distance. Wide and bluish and majestic. Waves break in the far distance, and once again closer to the shore. Palms sway in the wind, and people have fun on the beach. Some cricket, some football, some swimming. You pause, take a deep breath, smile.

On then, through the little lanes in between the shacks, until you’re on the beach. Without pause, you make your way into the shack. It’s early, by Goan standards, and there’s not too many people inside. You sink into your by-now regular chairs, and look out at the sea once more. Wiggle your way in comfortably, and sink your feet into the cold sand. Until your toes can’t be seen. You relax.

And then, unbidden, because they know you by now, they get you two pints of beer. Kings.

And you clink the bottles, murmur “Cheers, bro.” and take a sip.

And with your eyes closed, you can hear the sea, hear the wind, hear the people and taste the beer.

Goa

The Short Story

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

That’s by Hemingway.

Salut, maitre.

I know now. I know at last.

All my life, I've not been sure about what it is that I've wanted to do.

No longer - my calling in life is finally known.

This via Prem Panicker's blog - the site is a bit problematic, so forgive moi if it opens not.

I salute the researchers, I salute the initiative, I salute the imaginativeness.

Where to drop the CV, plis?

Sisyphus

The warrior stood ready,
With a quiver full of bows,
He drew a deep breath,
And then stared at his foe

The other, ever implacable,
Stood as still as still could be,
He knew he could outlast it all,
Every single attack of the enemy

And then the battle started,
And the warrior used his weaponry,
Excel and SAS and ARMA and ARIMA,
The entire range of his artillery

He analyzed with models
And he portrayed with charts
He deciphered and imagined trends
And he combined science and art

And finally the weary warrior triumphed,
The last e-mail was finished at last
The damn project was complete, PPT and all
It would all soon be a thing of the past

But the enemy, immune for eternity,
Was present in his inbox on the morrow
For projects will lose all battles but forever win the war,
And forever be the cause of Sisyphus' sorrow

I'm Ideating

It's two in the morning, and I cannot sleep.
I'm thinking of half baked ideas that may or may not work. Ideas that may let me earn my own bread, and live my own life.
Ideas that I've had with varying degrees of intensity and luminescence over the last two years or so.
Ideas that have been plain, downright fanciful. Ideas that I knew would never work. Ideas that I desperately wished (and wish) would work.
Ideas that have been spun out over cold beer, and ideas that have been discussed over the phone. Ideas that have sprung out of almost finished bottles of whiskey, and ideas that have forced their way into dreary Monday afternoons.
Ideas that promise me deliverance, ideas that promise to liberate.
Ideas.
Whether one of them will finally roll up it's sleeves and get to work, I do not know.
But until then, I'll wear an effin' tie on Mondays, and formals on Fridays, and I'll think about ideas.

I hate IBM.

The Second Coming

It promises to be better - and the pics certainly look better.
Knowing the man, one knows not if this endeavor will be as ephemereal - but we can always hope.

Welcome back, brother!

In Which We Find That 12 Hour Rides are Nice and Tiring

Up and away then, from the little lodge in Chitradurga, at eight in the morning.
A fresh start, a decent amount of rest. It's not too hot, it's not too cold - there's a gentle breeze on our faces.
GT's at the wheel and he's clocking a regular 80 kmph.
And on. Stop for breakfast at that blessed petrol pump in Rane Bennur, and ride on.
On through Haveri, through Hubli, through Belgaum, through Nippani, on to Kolhapur. Where we had lunch.

And on again.

This is pretty much what really long bike rides are about. Eating up mile after mile after mile of road. The scenery changes itself every few kilometers or so, but in unhurried fashion. Distant fields roll by, some people working in them looking up every now and then. Truckers pass you, and you pass them a few minutes later - the helper sitting in the seat adjacent to the driver, looking at you in frank curiosity as you pass him by. Stop every now and then for a cup of chai, and the flexing of the knees and the unclenching of the butt. Keep an eye out on the road, keep an eye out for potholes, speedbreakers etc.Wiggle your toes, flex your knees, hunch your shoulders, move your neck around. Look up to the sky, look up ahead. Check the rear view mirror. Every now and then, put your hand close enough to the enginge to see if she's heating up. Take a deep breath. And ride on.

Every now and then, the universe sends along some entertainment. Ours came in the form of two men on a bike - with a goat in between. The goat was at right angles to the bike, and had a rather puzzled look on it's face - "I don't know. I really don't know." types. The men, on the other hand, seemed to regard the whole thing as a perfectly normal occurence.

Lunch done at Kolhapur, we were back on the highway. Having been on the road for about fifteen hours, we were pretty tired by now. Peak her at a 100 kmph, forget all else and ride. Satara, Karad, the turn off for Mahabaleshwar, the Khambatki Ghat, Shirval - all just signposts on the road. Ride on and on and on.

And finally, 12 hours after riding pretty much continuously, we were finally in Pune. Home sweet home, a nice hot shower, hot food and a couple of pegs of whisky.

And then we climbed into the bus that would take us to Jalgaon. Found it to be a sleeper. In other words, instead of seats, we had nice wide bunkers. An eight hour journey, and the prospect of pleasant slumber.

Nice.

And then we found that we had the last seats in the bus. And barely five minutes after the bus started we hit the first speed breaker.

Oh fug.

Oh fug. Oh fug. Oh fug.

The Littlest Things

It's Friday. And it'll soon be afternoon.

And there's nothing I want more than to get on the Yam, meet friends at the paan tapri near Savera, and then go to Burger King.

Eat a nice, thick, hot, juicy and sensationally sinful Steak Burger. Drink a couple of Dimple Colas.

Tchah.

The Question For The Day

Was the normal distribution invented on a Wednesday?

My First Haiku

I wait; I am hunted
Reality searches
I obfuscate

Sport As Art. And The Other Way Around As Well.

Michael Schumacher. Pete Sampras. Steffi Graf. Rahul Dravid. Glenn McGrath. Brian Lara. Shane Warne. To a lesser extent (and that is because I don't follow the sport too much, and for no other reason), Michael Jordan.

And above all, Sachin Tendulkar and Roger Federer.

They've all had the ability to play the game with an effortlessness that cannot be comprehended by rational means. In some cases, other sportsmen have had better records, better wins, better this that and the other.

But these players, the ones that I've mentioned above, have had the ability to take our breath away. They've all turned in performances that shut us up. No amount of talking, analysing and dissecting will ever be able to tell us why we love Fraulein's Forehand as much as we did.

No commentator will ever be able to tell me exactly why a simple front foot defence by Rahul Dravid looks as classy as it does. And don't get me started on Sachin's on drive.

But they can all do it - I don't want to know how, and I don't care if I don't know - they can all make me gasp in awe.

For at their very best, they are creating art.

Well played, Mr. Federer.

Play on.

Ennui

'Tis Monday afternoon
And the clock will strike three
I feel hopelessly lazy
I so totally ain't free

'Tis Monday afternoon
And an exciting new project awaits
I couldn't care less
I can't think straight

'Tis Monday afternoon
And the hours drag by so slowly
My body is slouched, my breathing is slow,
And my eyelids are so heavy

'Tis Monday afternoon
The weather is wonderful outside!
It makes not a whit of a difference
I'm completely inside.

'Tis Monday afteroon
And I feel so horribly low
I've said this before, and I'll say it again
BUT THERE'S FIVE BLOODY DAYS TO GO

In Which A Whole New Definition Of Cold Is Found

Darkness all around.

The Bullet's headlamp throws a gloomy half focused beam of light on the road ahead, and kind and considerate truckers on the other side of the road come to the party with the dipper on full. Small settlements pass by in rapid succession, as the NH4 snakes it's way through Karnataka. The road is smooth, wide and with a divider in between. Up above in the sky, stars twinkle merrily.

And on the bike, Kulkarni and Tamhane shiver. Hesitatingly at first, short sharp bursts of shivering. A little judder in the knees to start with, a slight rumble in the tummy, and then a spasmodic jerk of the shoulders. Brrr.

Process repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

And then the teeth start to chatter. A sharp intake of breath and the body tries to to huddle in. And the teeth chatter. The wind rips through the pitiful clothing, through the helmet, under the visor, until the eyes start to tear up. And the teeth chatter. The hands tremble, the fingers, in spite of the gloves, are locked firmly in their own private mortis on the handlebars, and the teeth chatter.

I've been on the bike in colder weather, but not at two in the morning, and never on a 900 kilometer trip. The kilometers ate themselves up, and the bike roared on through one hamlet after the other, but the cold was getting to be unbearable. Brrr.

And we eventually reached Chitradurga, a town that is about 250 kilometers from Bangalore, give or take a few. The plan was to travel through until Rane Bennur, and sleep at the Reliance petrol pump over there. But at Chitradurga, mind and body gave up, and we decided to stop for a cup of chai or two.

As soon as I get off the bike, I realise that I can't walk steadily. The knees are a' knockin'. Rather uncontrollably. We stumble our way across to the shop, and gratefully step into the comparative warmth, the shop being shielded from the wind. Make our way to the ramshackle benches, sit down gratefully and look at each other.

And in the middle of the night, 250 kilometers from Bangalore and 650 kilometers from Pune, in a little tea shop at Chitradurga, we look at each other and laugh. Because.

Two cups of tea and some biscuits later, we're still laughing. Still because.

And then we ask the friendly owner to tell us how long it will take to get to Rane Bennur.

"Rane Bennur ahhhh," the man starts," Rane Bennur na.... ummmm.... hmmmm... 50 kilometers aaa"

That ain't so bad, we think, glancing at each other... another hour, and we should be asleep.

"No, no, no, no... aaaa.... 60 kilometers...aa" the man continues, barely getting into his stride.

That... well, at a stretch, one can think of 60 kilometers. Not easy, but we can do it... at least, we think so.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry... it is na.... it is... ummm 70 kilometers...aaa", says the human horror story, happily at full tilt now.

Out of the question. We look at each other, give Gallic shrugs, and turn to leave.

Despondent at this turn of events, we hear a plaintive voice behind us as we leave the shop:" Saar... saar... it is actually 80 kilometers... 85...?"

Turns out it's around 75 kilometers away, but we didn't give a flying f. at that point of time. Kulkarni and Tamhane were going to hunt down a room and a bed in Chitradurga, and be damned otherwise.

And so we sallied forth into town, to find that town had locked itself up a long long time ago. Every door was shut, every window was fastened, and it didn't look like we'd find anything open.

Until we chanced upon a newly built wall that stood in front of a newly built lodge. A pale yellow light at the gate allowed us to take in the fresh paint, the new construction and the garland around the gate.

"Hah!" said one.

"Ho!", said the other.

And we fell upon the agte and knocked at it in manner that would have made Attila proud. About five minutes later, just as we were about to abandon the din, a head popped out on the second floor, adorned with a rather fetching monkey cap.

"Yes?", enquired monkey cap head.

"We want a room bhaisaab" I yelled at him.

Monkey head paused, and pondered.

"But the lodge is not open", it feebly protested.

Tamhane kindly pointed out that the festooned garland indicated that it was.

Monkey head vehemently refused. Said that it was merely laid out in preparation. The thing would open tomorrow. And any which way, the rooms were not ready.

Which of course, deterred us not one bit. That's all right, we assured him. We'll sleep in any room.

No, no said monkey head. How could that be? Only the room in which I'm sleeping is done.

OK fine, we said. We'll sleep with you.

Long pause.

"No..." quavered monkey head, taking in a last lingering look at the apparitions outside. He retired into his room, locked the door, and for all we know, spent the remainder of night in devout prayer.

We finally found a room, anyhow, one with a television bolted to the table (for reasons still unclear), at around four in the morning.

Slept gratefully for four hours, and resumed our journey on the morrow.
About which more shall soon follow.

Stranger in a Strange Land

I was at this cafe in Bangalore today...

A large steak Chateaubriand, with two eggs (sunny side up), mashed potatoes and sauteed vegetables by the side, preceded by cheesy garlic bread and wonderfully succeeded by warm apple pie with cream and ice cream.

That has nothing to do with anything, since that was what I had for lunch. Still and all, it deserves mention because I like making my readers jealous.

That was followed by a leisurely stroll through one of Bangalore's better book stores, Blossoms. It's not a chain, it's not ultra modern, and it's got a homely feel. I like.

And so, post all those good things that should be done on a Sunday afternoon, a cup of coffee felt about right. Off we went then, to this cafe on Church Street, called Java City.

It's a small establishment, once again, not a chain - an oldish feel to the place. Posters of Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis and Ray Charles adorn the walls, old tables and chairs dot themselves all around the place, and on weekends, local oldies strum away on guitars. The people who seem to frequent the place look at home. They chat, they drink coffee, they smile, they laugh... they seem to be home.

And you know what? That makes me feel not at home.

Because when I see that kind of comfort in a restaurant / pub / cafe, I'm reminded of places in Pune. Places that I can rightfully call home. Good Luck, PD, Apache, Roopali, Appa... or a zillion others. Places where I can while away... have whiled away... hours together.

Haan, so my point is this: when I see that kind of comfort, I get reminded of places where I used to be comfortable. I get reminded of Pune.

Which is a point that has been made ad infinitum on these pages, but which is a point that is worth making again.

Bangalore is my adopted home, and it is a very nice place. As would be, I'm sure, most places on earth, if I were to live there.

But no matter where I go, and until I return home, I will always be a stranger in a strange land.


P.S. Pecos excluded. There is always an exception that proves the rule.

Life na.

Two can't make it.
Confirmed can't make it.
Of the very select few that I would really and truly want at my wedding, two can't make it.
It doesn't seem to matter - the preparations go along merrily.
It didn't matter, it was of no consequence when the dates were decided, and it doesn't matter now, when the last nail enters the bloody coffin.

But I'm the one getting married, and it matters to me.

Ah well. We'll meet in December and we'll hug, and get drunk, and cry, and then celebrate.
Bhaisaab Phancy Dress, that's how it will be.
Because.


Haan Phir!

In which the elements are encountered. And are found to be bloody cold.

One bullet, vintage 1995 (or is it '94? I can never remember, and GTya never lets me forget).
Two riders, one bulky, the other not at all.
Helmets, gloves, GT with a jacket and a sweater, self with (and to this day my body shudders in unfond remembrance) just the one sweater.
A tank full of petrol, and the remainder of the night.

Right, here we go.

The good news about leaving really really late is that there is hardly any traffic in Bangalore. Empty streets, yellow lamps, and hell for leather. MG Road, past Malleswaram, past Yeshwantpur, and out on to the NH4. The initial wiggles having ceased, one settles in for the long haul.

Not too much into the post-initial-wiggles, one notices that it is cold. Bitterly cold. Ooh, aah, man that is cold. One huddles behind GT (and those who know the two of us must now wonder how that is possible), and one hunkers down for the long haul. One wonders at self - five years and counting of going for crazy rides, you'd THINK something as elementary as accounting for the weather in November would have been dealt with satisfactorily.

Not so, of course. One sweater for cover, and the contributing sheep needs to look sharp about it the next time around - this is bloody useless.

It's wonderful how the human mind can tune out everything else on it's soirees on the bike. Trucks roar past you, GT swerves dangerously around corners, flirting with unseen boulders and craters, cars zoom now in this direction and now the other, but all you are aware of is your self directed diatribe and the cold. Wonderful ability to have, that. Enables you to pass the time magnificently. You take in and file away stuff that is of importance - for example, for the second time in rapid succession, you've passed policemen standing on the shoulder of the road, on the other side. Looking at you with the kind of wistful look that Dracula might have bestowed on those that got away. Or trucks and the other worldly messages on them. "Horn Please OK!", "Use Condoms" "Hum Do Hamare Do" and of course...




Until, that is, GT slows down uncertainly and starts looking around for street signs. And when GT turns and grins sheepishly, you know that you're probably on the wrong road. Hmmm.

So you turn back, and try to reach that part of the road where you and the right direction parted ways. Having done so, you immediately meet aforementioned Draculas. Senior official is a little further away, leaning against a bike that is precariously perched on it's side stand, talking with two guys. Said guys look like they had stepped out to replenish that which had merrily gone down the hatch. Junior official harrumphs, plods towards us, hitches up his trousers, and asks GT for his license. License having been inspected, junior official asks us, with a kindly gleam in his beady eye, about our destination.

"Poona!", we offer up in chorus.

"Poona? Where is that?" he volleys back.

"Maharashtra... you know sir, Poona, Maharashtra?"

Junior official's server hangs. Furrowed brow in place, he bravely takes on this cerebral challenge. One can make out the gears spinning furiously in the cranium. And just as that ancient machinery is about to collaps under the unaccustomed strain, Mr. Senior Official strolls up to see what this here is all about.

"Poona, huh?", he enquires, stalling for time. "Poona.... hmmm"
Plainly, neither know what to make of two bhaisaabs, astride a Bullet, at one in the morning, outside Bangalore in freezing weather, planning to make it to Poona.

"Hmm... Poona" they mutter in chorus, handing GT back his license and sliding away,"Poona..."

And as we start the bike, in desperation, one of them offers up this gem: "Quite far no... Poona?"

We, brave denizens of La-la land, do not deign to reply.

Having summarily dealt with the second team of Draculas in similiar fashion, we get back on to NH4, and continue on our merry way.

A little way down the road, already shivering uncontrollably at the back, self takes over the steering, and meets the frigid elements full on.

And realises, in full measure, that it is

Publish Post

cold. Bitterly, bitterly cold.

Status: Two in the morning, cold, stiff wind, barely out of Bangalore, a long way to go.

In other words,
Status: Screwed.

Hiatus. Unhiatus. And all things like that.

That was there, see?
Hiatus, I mean.

And now it is not there. An unhiatus, if you will.

The Pune sage will be completed, and we will then embark on a wondrous journey, the likes of which Kulkarni has not seen hitherto.

Promise.

Hang on, me hearties. Regular transmission will soon to be resuming.

Mr. Tujemrogot

Sigh. The Internet, I tell you.

(1) Roger Federer v (2) Rafael Nadal

The Wimbledon final.
I do not know what will happen.

But may the best men win.

Bangalore to Pune. The Travelogue.

Why does one travel?

Why does one leave Bangalore in the middle of the night, armed with nothing more than a solitary jacket and a pair of gloves - and that too in late November?

Why does one determine to travel anywhere between 900 to 1300 kilometers? On a bike that is notoriously fickle at the best of times, with a companion who might at best be described as mildly eccentric? Not that self is un-eccentric, of course.

Why does one wake up caretakers at half-built lodges at 4 in the morning? Why are televisions bolted to TV stands in lodges in Karnataka?

Why indeed, do goats around Kolhapur prefer travel by bike? Why do bus drivers in Maharashtra ignore speed-breakers? Why are there no buses between Jalgaon and Pune in the afternoon?

Why do buses break down for no apparent reason? Why are guardian angels daredevils?
Why did we do what we did?

Why does one travel?

Because there is nothing as enjoyable as the wind on your face on the open road. Because overtaking and being overtaken is liable to make you attain nirvana. Because watching the undulating landscape around you change mile by mile, minute by minute, is certain to make you attain nirvana.

Because, at four in the morning, when you shiver uncontrollably from the bitter cold, and sip your third glass of chai in a doomed attempt to warm up your innards, and look at each other and laugh. And laugh.

You travel to look at each other at four in the morning and laugh.
That's why you travel.

If.

If the mind had the courage of the heart.
If the eyes in my head could realise what the eye of the mind can see.
If I could speak that which I think.
If I could smile and explain why I smiled.
If I could be allowed to laugh without the burden of explanation.
If my choices and reality were strangers.
If I had the courage to be what I want to be.
If.

Kulkarni's Pearls of Wisdom - Part I

I recently had the opportunity to learn,
One of life's lessons; its so very strange...
One may fall in love all right, but -
The marriage will always be arranged.

Tick tick, tick tick

Shoot The Idiot

OK, here's an idea.
It's a reality show that is just total awesomeness.

No, really. Hear me out.

I'll keep it short and simple - think over it, and if you know anyone in SET MAX, let 'em know.

We'll discuss how to split the money later.

At the start of the first innings of an IPL match, viewers across the country get to vote for the commentator they think is the most idiotic. Choose from our formidable list - the evergreen Ranjith Fernando, Mr. Tracer Bullet Shastri, Mr. I-Have-An-Opinion-About-Everything-Under-The-Sun Gavaskar, Mr. Damned-If-I'll-Keep-Quiet Morrison or my all time favourite, Arun Lal. Whoever. Pick your idiot, and vote.

At the end of the first innings, SET MAX tells us which of these priceless chumps have made it to the top three, on the basis of the most votes received. Say (and this is a reasonable guess) Arun Lal, Ranjith Fernando and Aamir Sohail are the chosen ones. In the second innings, you can only vote for these three. And at the end of the match, on the basis of votes received, we will have chosen a Loser.

The One. The Chump. The Idiot.

And what happens is this: the Man of the Match gets to walk to the middle of the pitch, and on behalf of a suffering nation, gets to shoot the Idiot. With a paint ball gun, you understand - we want to have the vicarious pleasure of seeing Arun Lal with a large red paint blob on his shirt time and time again - but that, in a nutshell is how the show will go.

Imagine - you could have guest commentators too - Mark Nicholas could fly down for this, I'm sure, and maybe Venkatesh Prasad would oblige. Charu Sharma could hold a mike again, and you could have Mandira Bedi back in the hot seat. Maninder Singh, Kris Srikkanth, Ramiz Raja and of course, Navjot Singh Sidhu. Does the mouth not water?

So seriously, if you know any of the head honchos over at MAX, let 'em know. We have an idea that is bound to resonate and unite the people of this land like never before.

Shoot The Idiot.

An idea whose time has come.

I've got thinning hair

I've always been an honest blogger. One with integrity. I may have stretched the truth every now and then to make my stories more interesting, but I have never misled my readers.
Not knowingly, anyhow.

So, peoples, as per promises made in earlier, happier times: I've got thinning hair.


Currently living:
Bachelor Boy - Cliff Richard

Magic

One should never try to understand magic. I know now, to my cost, that if you try to do so, magic goes away.

Instead, one should simply appreciate the good things in life; I do.

Thank you.

Nothing

 

Today, dear old girls and all you buggers, I shall tell you a story about Nothing.

Careful perusers of these pages (and who would want to be otherwise?) would have noted that the word "Nothing", in the previous sentence, commences with a capital "N". That is no typing mistake; it is not a typo. That's just the way it was supposed to be – I shall indeed be telling you a story about Nothing.

Nothing is a word with deep meaning and significance in my life. It is a word that has described me completely on many an occasion; happily, I can still plead guilty on this count.

To give you'll a flavour of what I mean:

"What are you doing?"

"How much have you finished studying?"

"What is in that bag?!"

"What is in your wallet?"

... and so on and so forth.

A deeply satisfying, all-encompassing, always and everywhere present vacuum has been an ambition for me all of my life, and I'm happy to report that I have been fairly successful in this regard. And along with me, my closest friends, pals, buddies and BBKTK's have shared this noble quest – they too have searched for the Holy Grail.

Two worthies come to mind at the present instance (and lead us to our merry tale) - Dennis Zachariah Alexander, and Anish Parulekar. One knows not if you've heard of these gentlemen, but you are certainly missing something if you have not.

We go back a long way, these two and I. For a little more than a decade, we have stood shoulder to shoulder, resolute in our support for each other, and done Nothing. At each of our homes, outside in restaurants, pubs, colleges and many other places, we have conspired and successfully implemented Project Nothing. In face of arduous odds and challenging obstacles, we have refused to bend, and we've fought to see the day through.

Click here for a short introduction to Dennis. He and I were supposed to write on this blog together, he one post, and I another, and so on. As you can see, Dennis is good at doing Nothing. Anish, of course, is not far behind.

Anyhow, doing Nothing is a task easier said than done. Right now, for example, both you and I are not doing Nothing. I'm writing this, and you, obviously, are reading this. Beep!

If you're on the phone, or working on Excel, or are with your babe, or whatever – you're not doing Nothing. The only activities that pass muster are eating, drinking, casual chit chat, and staring vacantly at the TV. All else is hard labour. And therefore not advisable.

And on one memorable occasion, us three made a right good fist of doing Nothing – even by our own lofty standards. Which is, really, the point of all this.

We spent an entire weekend cooped up in a studio apartment in Mahim, with a wonderfully capable stereo system and a TV for company. From late morn till really late night, we lolled on the beds, made casual conversation, pretended to watch TV, ate kheema pav (for breakfast, lunch, dinner and midnight snack) and pursued with vigour any activity that did not require much of vigour. If you see what I mean.

For two days, we stayed comatose. We watched documentaries on TV about the Indian Railway, and we listened to Dire Straits on the stereo. We talked about this that and the other well into the wee hours of night, and ordered food at home. We sat in the living room and did not speak a word. For hours on end. The only time we did step out of the house was to replace a couple of bottles of beer that we had dispensed with – at that age, that seemed like a prudent step (replacing the bottles; consuming them wasn't prudent, it was heaven). We hung out like only guys without girlfriends can.

In complete peace, happily broke and resolutely single, with not a soul to bother us, we stayed together in that house like bears in winter. For two days, Dennis, Anish and I were lost to the world.

And even today, nearly a decade on, we still remember with wistful sighs those days of yore. Acknowledged we may be as Masters at the Art of Nothingess, the three of us know that this particular episode may well prove to be unsurpassable.

Be that as it may. The Buddha under the tree didn't have a patch on us for those two days, and for that, we shall ever be grateful.

So yeah, that's that.

 

 

P.S. What are the odds, do you think, of at least one reader going: "But I don't get it. What was the point of writing all of that?"

 

Life Na...

GT was watching a movie late at night the other day - Déjà Vu, starring Denzel Washington.
He fell asleep while watching it.
So, the next day, before going to office, he slipped in the DVD again, and tried to watch the parts he'd missed.
The problem was, he had to keep fast forwarding. Ten seconds into a scene, he'd realize he'd already seen it the night before.

Summer

I have in my room one of those thingummies. A digital clock that, in a fit of existential doubt, mutates into one that is also a calendar, and just to cover things off, insists on telling you the temperature as well.

I'm staring at that clock now, and the ghastly contraption cheerily informs me that were I step out into the sun, it would roast me at an ambient temperature of around 34 degrees.

I know, I know – compared to your native place, where temperatures reach 75 degrees every day of the year, Bangalore is as cool as it can get, and I'm a city slicker to complain, but now what to do? It's hot as hell.

It's hot, it's sweltering. Your eyes hurt when you're on the road with the glare, and you have unhappy armpits. There's a trickle of sweat down your back, and you have the dreaded itches. The fan alleviates without curing, and the afternoons are endured rather than experienced. The nights are stuffy and you have no appetite. A bath is effective only as long as it lasts. Step back outside into the world and you're back to square one.

You know the feeling, no?

But this post is not a rant about summer. It is about the nicer aspects of that least wanted of seasons.

You remember the summer holidays? Ah, those long, unending days of blessed nothingness. When you'd get up at nine, watch TV and have breakfast, traipse down to play cricket, do so until a late lunch and then snooze. Wake up to cards or Scrabble or Monopoly or – and this was my favourite – carom. Cricket again, or maybe hide and seek or any of the other million games that children can play for hours. Dinner and some more TV. A movie that ends at midnight, and good night.

Visits to the park, and sessions on the swings and the slides. Plate after plate of pani puri. Helium filled balloons and hot and spicy bhel. Gully cricket and gulli danda. Matinee movies and cartoons and popcorn. Visits from relatives and going out for dinner. Frolicking in the swimming pool and long tall glasses of nimbu paani.

Memories. Now what to do. Overwhelming types they can turn out to be.

But two things I remember more than most.

One, long sessions of cards in the afternoons. Games of Penalty, Not-At-Home, Ghulam-Chor, Badaam Saat and Rummy and so many others. But really, what I looked forward to more than anything else was the bowl of long strips of raw mango, lightly garnished with salt and red chilli powder, interspersed with green chilli split lengthwise. It sounds spicy, I know, but believe me, the tanginess of the raw mango and the spiciness of the chilli, with just a hint of salt. Sigh.

And second, lunch in the summer was inevitably accompanied by bowl after bowl of aam-ras. Now, if you don't know what aam-ras is (and I can tell you right now that Microsoft Word certainly doesn't), then go out and ask an Indian. That Indian will inform you, in wistful tones and with a lingering look in the eye that aam-ras is, really speaking, the nectar of the Gods.

Thick and juicy, richly orange in colour, with little delicious lumps of mango islanded in pure mango pulp, chilled lightly but not frozen – aam-ras is a dessert fit for kings. Households all over India make this dish with any of the gazillion varieties of mango that are available, and children in these households have grown up revering this simple yet heavenly dessert. Me, personally, I'd go for the aam-ras made with the Haapus (Alphonso). Sigh. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

And so I may sweat and the heat may be sweltering. Summer may be here, and about that there is no doubt.

But I'll get by with my memories of the summers gone by. And, if you don't mind, another helping of aam-ras, thank you.

The Abolishment

 

In the biting cold of the Himalayas

On a lonely mountain, way up high,

A wild looking bearded man,

Let out a despondent sigh

 

He'd made his way up here,

Many months and years ago

He'd offered penance to the Gods,

But today his morale was low

 

Through many a season had he waited,

Eon on eon he patiently stood,

With single minded devotion he had prayed

And long had he nature withstood

 

But today he thought of giving up

He'd finally had enough

He would wave the flag white and go

Back and earn his dough

 

Nary had he taken his hands down though,

And was about to stand on two legs again,

He was struck by a mighty vision;

By an understanding beyond his ken

 

And then did the Good Lord speak unto him

And ask of his devoted devotee

"You've pleased me, my son, and so,

Ask what you will of me"

 

Tears filled the mortal's eyes,

He'd waited for ever so long,

His wish was about to be fulfilled,

He was about to right a grievous wrong

 

O Lord, said the bearded one

I have a request of thee,

And it is one, I assure you,

That is required by all of humanity

 

It will be granted, said the Bearded One,

You've certainly earned the right

Ask and it will be given,

For all is within my might

 

Well, said the mere mortal, I among others,

Have suffered for nearly all of my life,

A suffering so ghastly in nature,

That it gives incomparable strife

 

And I resolved to come here and ask;

Ask of you, my Lord to reprieve,

Us from all this suffering,

From our misery and our grief

 

On behalf of my world, O Lord

On behalf of humanity I say!

Grant me my earned wish, O Lord

And abolish that accursed Monday!

 

The Art of Self Expression

I like crazy.

A lot of it has to do with the environment that I grew up in. My family, immediate and extended (bless 'em all), is happily mad as a rule, and anybody who has maintained but a passing interest in these pages over time would agree that all my friends are rather unhinged. My best mates in school and in college were raving kooks, and most of my neighbours over these years have covered themselves with glory in the loony bin department.

I myself, I wish to assure you, remain defiantly mad. The corporate world dusts me off, and drags me kicking and screaming through five days of chained sobriety, but underneath the pleasing calm veneer, Kulkarni remains as Mad as a Hatter.

And that, dear old friends, is why I love Bangalore so much. Although I love Pune infinitely more than I like Bangalore – it is home, after all – I must admit that Bangalore wins hands down in the Madness Stakes. Hands down, I assure you.

And the reasons for this are a-plenty. Speed breakers, and their awe-inspiring designs, cops and their blessed idiosyncrasies, traffic and it's asinine management, the food, and it's bewildering culture, and so many more fascinating aspects that serve as proof of the city's endearing madness.

But the one thing that truly sets Bangalore apart in the eyes of the sufferer and the connoisseur, and the one thing that gives Bangalore the thorny crown without dispute – is it's ability to express itself.

Bangalore advertises the fact that it is mad in myriad ways, each of them a work of art. Be it the advertising on hoardings that abound in the city, the menus in it's many restaurants, in the maddeningly mixed idioms that Bangalore uses, or indeed, in the way that Bangalore communicates at large – it is pleasingly, endearingly, outstandingly mad.

Have a dekko at this picture. It was taken right outside our home here in Bangalore, and it's raison d'etre is still a puzzle.

One can spend (and I have) many hours on trying to figure out the deeper meaning in this magnificent message. First off the bat, "Save yourself from Uneventuality". Even allowing for the fact that every Bangalorean seems to thrive on living life on the edge when it comes to driving on the road, wouldn't the point of following traffic rules have rather the opposite aim in mind? Maybe not, you think to yourself, maybe eventualities is what Namma Bengalooru actually craves. Who is to know?

"VONOV SOLSS".

I mean, you have to give that thing space. You can't begin a sentence right after you say that. Doesn't seem right somehow.

What on earth could it mean? What are they trying to say to us? Is it English? I think not. Should one read it left to right, and then the next line? Or should one bob up and down, V and then S and then O and then O again, and so on? Either ways, it remains resolutely unreadable. Fascinating, is it not?

Now, moving on, if they're indeed going to teach us how to speak English, they could begin with themselves, given what's written right above it.

"Computer Training and Personality Development", of course, just make matters murkier.

"In case someone actually begins to think that he's understood us", you can hear the advertisers scheme," Let's throw him completely off track by throwing in Computer Training in there. And to really run riot, let's follow that up with Personality Development. That'll show 'em!"

They end with, bless their souls, Foreign Languages. So is "VONOV SOLSS"...

...In a foreign language? Is it meant as an appetiser, an hors d'oeuvre? One will never know, because one will of course never have it in oneself to actually call that blessed number.

And what really drives you up the wall is to find that these guys have branches. Not two, but a resounding four. People in Bangalore, it would seem, can't get enough of VONOV SOLSS.

For all you know, a dozen more are being added as we speak.

Bless their souls, indeed.

And this of course, is but one example (one of the better ones, certainly) of Bangalore attempting to express itself. I'll share more over time, be sure of that.

In the meantime, here's wishing you a very happy VONOV SOLSS.

Dear Old HAL

On the 11th of May, legend has it, the Bangalore International Airport will be thrown open to a non-adoring public.

Somewhere in the far distance, a certain Mr. Brunner gives his best impression of manic laughter, but that's the plan for the moment.

And as with everything else that is in the realm of the public cynosure, this too has generated a Mt. Everest's worth of newsprint.

Worry not, dear reader. Kulkarni couldn't care less about what people with an interest in public matters think about the move, and Kulkarni
does not intend to launch a diatribe either for or against the new airport.

But Kulkarni deeply laments the passing of the chaos that was the dear old doddering HAL airport. Truly, deeply laments.

Allow me the luxury of painting the strangers a somewhat delayed introduction.

Way back in the misty haze that is the past, HAL (Hindustan Aeronautics Ltd.) built an airport far away from the city. IT (and that is no printing mistake) happened, and the city promptly upped and swallowed the area around the HAL airport. In the process, the wise men in the Karnataka government decided to use HAL airport as the city's airport. IT grew bigger, and people began
traipsing in from all corners of the world. With a brainwave that was inspiring even by the Karnataka government's standards (and they're a pretty intellectual bunch out there), HAL airport then came an International Airport. Broadly speaking, that's how it all happened.

And I haven't travelled much, but believe me when I tell you this: dear old HAL airport must be one of the most hilarious airports the world has ever had the privilege of hosting.

Plonked a little way away from Airport Road, HAL Airport is a whimsical collection of short squat buildings, on one side of which lies a runway that is just about long enough to prevent heart seizure for any pilot fool enough to land on it. On the other side of those short squat buildings lies chaos on an unprecedented scale. This is so because HAL airport was designed (presumably) to accommodate the occasional car that would ramble in from the main road, regurgitate its passengers, and amble out the other route. It was certainly not designed to handle all the traffic that Namma Bengalooru could throw at it. And make no mistake, when N.B decides to throw traffic at you, it does so on a mind numbing scale.

So at any given point of the day, HAL Airport chiefly consists of traffic cops clutching their heads in despair, people in cars honking away to no avail, and pilots standing on their brakes and saying their
Hail Mary's while landing on the tarmac. How it survives, nobody knows. Safety regulations are practically non-existent, and the only reason it hasn't been on the list of terrorists around the world is because it is, frankly, beneath any self respecting terrorist's self-esteem.

Cars, bikes, trucks, fuel trucks, fire engines, cargo vehicles, cabs and cows happily cohabitate the area outside the airport, peacefully co-existing in the traffic jam that is ever existent. At all hours of
the day and night, policemen huff and puff and plead with visitors, travellers, sundry citizens and varied animals to get a move on and go elsewhere, only to be pacifically ignored. Karmic peace, I assure you.

And apart from all those splendid reasons for being in everlasting love with dear old HAL, here's the clincher.

As with all modern airports the world over, dear old HAL has a restaurant in its welcoming premises. Situated a little away from the airport, on the far side of the traffic jam, Bageecha is a restaurant
that is open for 24 hours, seven days a week. It serves food that is best eaten by stomachs made primarily of cast iron, and it also boasts of a chai tapri serves chai at all hours of the day and night. We used
to go there to buy the coke to accompany our rum at three in the morning - and this alone is reason enough for me to shed a tear.
But the reason why I'll miss Bageecha is this - it can still be seen on Bageecha's menu:

Yes it is closer to home, far closer, than BIAL will ever be. More convenient, closer, more approachable, no UDF and all that. Yeah.

But I'll miss dear old HAL because... well, in spite of all its faults, in spite of all its shortcomings, dear old HAL was endearingly eccentric, frustratingly fussy and incurably irritating. It was almost
human, it was.

And if a certain Arthur C Clarke was still alive, he'd have nodded sympathetically.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Huh?

Say what you will, there is a rush of adrenalin about the whole thing.

The involuntary jerk of the neck, and the eyes open all too suddenly.
Light seemingly floods what had been welcome darkness, and there is a
slight dryness about the mouth.
One parts one's lips ever so slightly, and the tongue is prised loose
from the roof. A first, exploratory gulp and then a sharp intake of
breath.
The eyes scan the room quickly, responding in part to age old intuition,
looking for immediate danger. Upon meeting derisive smiles and
derogatory chuckles, there is brief puzzlement in the mind - what could
be the source of amusement here, if instead all one is feeling is a rush
of adrenalin?

And then one recalls the dark, comfortable room. A hush that a cathedral
would have been proud of, and a welcome coolness that the air
conditioner effortlessly supplies.
A steady drone from the center of the room, the voice rising in neither
pitch nor inflection, and slides that sidle past at the rate of one
every two minutes, comforting in their regularity of design, colour, and
for all you could care, content.
The slow slide down the chair, and the slow shallow breathing. A deep
somnolent sigh, and careful observation of self's tummy rising and
falling in slow steady cadence.
Then the heavy eyelids, the droopy eyelids. They fall steadily, until
your vision is blurred - at which point you raise yourself and peer at
the screen. Nod intelligently and draw in a deep breath.
The slides nod comfortingly at you. They know, they understand. And
slowly but surely, they begin their slow reassuring dance, keeping pace
with the drone that still emanates from the speaker. Softly and
soothingly they lull you into drooping in your chair once more.
And again the eyelids droop. A milimetre at a time, but they droop
nonetheless.
Until your vision is blurred once more, and this time you succumb to the
urge. The blur grows ever darker, and you slip away into slumberland,
where there is peace.
Sleep.

Until your reflexes kick in.

But it is all worth it, is it not, buddy boyos?
Because nothing kicks ass like falling asleep during a presentation in
the afternoon.
Amen.

Katta

 

Nowhere else in the world, I can assure you, is a short, squat wall accorded so much importance, as it is in Pune.

Assiduous readers of this blog would have by now gotten comfortable with the fact that all Punekars are a touch on the eccentric side. Not by much, but within the breast of each citizen of that fair city rests a spark of quirkiness. In fact, I might go so far as to say that it is the defining characteristic of a Punekar – and who would disagree?

Which, I regret to inform you, does not bring me to the point of this post.

But if you see what I mean, it does prove my point.

But the point of this post, I hasten to add, is already up there in the title. Today, boys and dear girls, we're going to learn about the katta.

A katta – don't hold me to this, by the way – is a short squat wall on which people can sit. It is situated, preferably, a little away from the main thoroughfares, and should even so be in reasonable proximity to a college. Within shouting distance should be a tapri that sells sutta and chai. On it should be friends, not necessarily from the same college.

Given these rather sparse requirements, a college going Punekar can spend weeks on said katta.

For in the eyes of the ubiquitous college going Punekar, chatting with friends on the katta is about all there is to life. While his peers of a more sincere variety listen to the steady hypnotic drone of the lecturer in a stuffy classroom, he sits on the katta with not a care in the world, sipping every now and then from a small chipped dirty glass, half filled with tapri chai. And at this rather cerebral activity – sitting on the katta, that is - there is none to surpass the Punekar. None.

For all kattas across Pune, there apply certain norms; expected patterns, that by now have been imprinted on every Punekar's DNA. Easy conversation, many cups of cutting, the occasional vada pav, the rather more frequent sutta, and above all an easy going, yet cutting sarcasm that wounds but does not kill. Mastery of these skills is a necessary prerequisite that must be possessed by the owner of every derriere that rests on these kattas.

Also, a katta session must of necessity involve a heated argument, a lengthy debate, long, rambling and pointless reminisces, a thorough whole-hearted vilification of the Indian cricket team, and in times of utter tedium, a superficial discussion of politics.

No specific order needs to be applied, and the cerebral quotient is guided only by the type of college that is in closest proximity. A katta near the Pol. Sci. Department in Pune University, for example, will be the very nadir of abstruseness, while the katta outside Symbiosis might never cross the realm of what happened on Monday Night Raw the past week.

Bird and bike watching is not only allowed, it is thoroughly encouraged. Each katta usually has a special; a "The One" in either category, and the truly lucky kattas have that rarest of rare honours: a "The Bird who rides The Bike".

From early morning until late evening, the katta hosts a series of never flagging conversations. They range from the profane to the mundane, from light banter to tear-jerkers. Friendships are forged here, and relationships are sundered. Groups at the time of passing out vow to meet at least once a year, and groups at the beginning of the year form themselves to last for a lifetime. Conversations last as long as the day does, and sometimes longer.

The first puff of the cigarette is inhaled on these kattas, and the first bitter sip of a somewhat cold bottle of beer is had here. The first hesitating proposal, painfully rehearsed for weeks on end, is made here a little after dusk, and it is here that the ears first get to hear "You're a good friend but."

The katta sits there, year on year, decade on decade, playing host to one generation of youth after another. It weans for all of its flock the skills of life, and it graduates in the true sense of the term far more students than formalized academia does.

For many a Punekar, the katta is the college. And what an education it is.

No?

 

Above all, the coffee. Above all.

 

Early morning time in Pune. Around seven thirty, say.

The early morning rush hasn't really started yet. A not-yet-fully-begun morning, if you know what I mean. The sun is out, but the heat is not.

People come back from their morning walks, from their game of badminton, tennis or squash. Out for a jog on BMCC ground, perhaps. A climb up the revered tekdis, or maybe some yoga at home. Better still, nothing at all. You've woken up, and you're here. All around you, people abound.

The middle aged salaried class is out in force, grey hair and clipped moustache. Maybe the squarish, rimmed spectacles that shield crinkly eyes. Short shorts, as were fashionable in circa 1980. A t-shirt that reveals a slight paunch. Bhabhiji is similar in spirit, but wears a salwar kameez. With the duppatta tied across the shoulders, satchel style. And if she is a true Puneri, she will have on her head a cap. Colour blue.

The youth brigade is well represented as well. Slight, not-quite-formed moustaches and the ghost of a straggle of a beard on obviously adolescent faces. T-shirts drenched in sweat, and a tennis racket for company.

And of course, the pensioner regiment. Ramrod straight, with newspapers opened in front of them, with glasses (not cups) of coffee on their tables, they'll give a disapproving once over to nearly everyone who enters the place.

Waiters abound everywhere, with young boys running around clearing tables so that a new lot can sit. The owners in a little corner to the left as you enter, minding their galla and running their restaurant. The kitchen diagonally opposite, behind the rather large refrigerator that houses the cold drinks, from which emanate the clash and the bangs of many vessels, and in unfailing succession, steaming platefuls of the holiest of heavenly foodstuffs.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Roopali.

As you come down from Fergusson College's back gate... allow me my idiosyncrasies, won't you now?

Fergusson College, around which Deccan Gymkhana arranges itself. Sprawled over a large rambling, self indulgent area, Fergusson college plays host to a variety of departments, and an asylum's worth of lunatics. Settled at the foothills of the Maruti Tekdi, Fergusson College has within it's confines many a hostel, department and canteen. Another blog post, in other words.

But the reason I digressed is this. On Fergusson College Road, as you proceed towards the Police Ground, you encounter first the Fergusson Girl's Hostel. Then, a little later, you come to the Main Gate. Opposite which is Savera, where half the students sit. The other half are at Vaishali. Then, a while later, you encounter another gate, which leads up to the Staff Quarters and the Hostels. Known, with a whiff of the common sense that Pune is renowned for, as "Third Gate".

So when you have a gate that opens on to BMCC road, you call it, with another dash of the common sense that I referred to earlier, as "Back Gate".

Because.

So as I was saying, as you proceed from the Back Gate down towards Fergusson College Road, you park just before this road ends. On the left, in front of Jai Jalaram Xerox centre. 25 paise, back to back. At least, that's what it used to be. Cross the road, and on the other side lies Roopali. Started way back, long before I was born, Roopali has served to it's loyal clientele South Indian food of a quality unparalleled. Nonpareil, if you will.

Soft fluffy utthappas, garnished with a smattering of chillies and onions. Or maybe a crisp-at-the-edges and soft-in-the-centre dosa. Maybe you feel like a fluffy idli today, or would you prefer a freshly fried medu vada? Try the cutlet then, if that's your fancy. Personally, I'd go for the utthappa to start with, and then a plate of medu vada.

But the coffee. Oh my God, the coffee.

Served in a simple white cup with a brown rim, on a saucer of similar design, with white freckled foamy froth at the top. Hot to the touch, you lift the cup delicately as you would grip a pen. The first draft of the aroma hits your nostrils, and the sweetish tinge of fresh filter coffee assails your senses. Your eyes close in reverence, and you take the first sip. The bitter introduction of the thin, biting coffee is assailed by the milk present, which leads on the sugary aftertaste.

A smile creases your face and you open your eyes. And on the visage of the member of the retired regiment who looked at you disapprovingly as you entered, is the ghost of a smile. He does not quite raise his glass of coffee in salute, but in that caffeine charged moment, one Old Punekar acknowledges another.

Salaam.

Of Diseases Incurable

 

"Well then, young man", said the old shrink,

Settling into his comfy old chair,

"What seems to be the problem then, eh...

Why do I sense an air of despair?"

 

"I don't really know, Doc",

The youth made reply morosely,

"My life's overflows with ennui

And the days pass so somnolently!"

 

"And why is that, do you think?"

Smilingly the shrink said,

"Is it your love life (or the lack of one),

Or does something else fill you with dread?"

 

"No, it's not that Doc... at least, I think not

All of that, praise the Lord, is so very fine,

I don't think it my health; nor my wealth

And it's neither food nor wine"

 

"Hmm", the shrink said musingly

"The answer is then completely clear,

Your career must be your ailment;

Is the office a place of toil and fear?"

 

"Oh no, I don't think so," said the youth,

Work is really too good to be true,

Numbers and charts and stats and graphs,

And really, that's all I ever do."

 

"Hmm", the shrink then said,

And this time his mood was sombre,

He thought he had identified the problem,

And the thought filled him with horror

 

Heavily did the shrink then sigh; in despair,

Finally he said, "Your case I cannot fix;

All else I could handle, young man,

But you seem to work in analytics!"

Hullo, Patel Sa’ab?

"Hullo, Patel Sa'ab? Haan... nahi, daaru chahiye tha. Haan, nahi – maloom hai, thoda late hai... par please... Patel Sa'ab? Haanji... ek khamba Old Monk. Haan OK... nahi paanch minit mein aa jaayenge. Haan pakka. OK Patel Sa'ab. Thank you."

On the bike and off you go. Late at night, and no traffic on the road. Pune is cold by night, and Pune is empty by night. You speed along the roads, your own shadow flitting by in rapid succession under the light of the lamp posts. Slow down at a crossing, and speed up on the straights. Over the bumps, and avoid the potholes. On and on, rider hunched up in the contorted, concentrated stance that only a drunk rider can attain, and pillion gaily drunk, bring up the rear by yelling and singing.

Past the residential areas, past the college, and past the hostel. Opposite the school, the bike is parked. Two rather tipsy souls clamber off and make their way to the door. A couple of soft knocks, made louder when no response is to be had from within.

The night is silent, save for the occasional bike that whizzes past. The insects valiantly chirp away, and every now and then you can hear a dog bark in the distance. The stars twinkle away up above – it is a moonless night, and the sky is clear. All the houses are barred shut, and there is no light burning within. Pune sleeps, but the two souls are awake. And knocking.

An answering grunt, and an exchange of relieved glances without.

The door opens and a sleepy moustached man stumbles out with a bottle wrapped in paper. The money is handed over, no questions asked. Two rather tipsy souls get back onto the bike and head back past the hostel, the school and the residential areas. Onto the main road, and whizz past it all. A brief stop at the usual place, just off the main road and then a right, for the cold drinks. Some chips for company, and you're back in the game.

The party continues.

Nal Stop, Comesum, Pyaasa, Kubera, the bakery opposite Pune Station. Patel Sa'ab and the cold drinks. The cigarette tapri just off JM Road and the cigarette vendor beside the railway booking counter at Karve Road.

And in fond remembrance, the back door entry to Lucky – may it's soul rest in peace.

And if, my friend, you've been reading this with a wistful smile and a heavy heart – why then, hail fellow, well met. You too have prowled at night.

Cheers.