Road

 

Long and wide and undulating,

Stretched out for miles on end

No respite in sight; the middle of the night,

She's the only one; a stranger, my friend

 

The tank is full and she's raring to go,

On and on, for hours on end

Mile after mile; a tired face and a creased smile,

She's the only one; a stranger, my friend

 

Chai and sutta and off we go again,

A journey with an unplanned end

Here and now; Lady Luck, take a bow

She's the only one; a stranger, my friend

 

I live to ride, this is my life

From here until world's end,

My steed and me; a lasting epiphany

She's the only one; no stranger, my friend

At Pune’s Centre.

There's a mall at the end of my school lane now.

In the heart of the city, full of leafy lanes and little nooks and corners, is an area known to all and sundry as Model Colony. I don't know if they meant it literally when they rallied around and started calling it that, but the name is certainly apt.

Extending (roughly, you understand) from Jagtap Dairy a little off Fergusson College Road up until Deep Bangla Chowk and the far reaches of Chittaranjan Vatika at the ends, Model Colony is primarily residential in nature. It has a post office, a couple of banks, a car showroom and a big BSNL office. Opposite the BSNL office is my school – Vidya Bhavan.

As with most people, I have extremely fond memories of school.

As with most people, I hated the time I spent there – or at least, it wasn't as much fun then as I make it out to be now. Getting up in the mornings, getting ready, polishing your shoes, packing your bag, catching the school bus, attending period after period, with the short recess and the long recess, and homework not completed, and remarks in my calendar, and units and terminals and jeez. All of that.

Of course, all I remember now, or choose to, are the free periods, and the games on the ground, and cricket played with a hanky that was tied into a ball, and a writing pad. Games of table tennis and impromptu squash. Canteen food and Dimple Cola (any Punekar remember this?). Annual days and chanya manya bor. Guava smattered with red chilli powder and salt.

Now what to do. I gloss over and paint for my memory only the pretty pictures.

And among the happier memories are the times I would cycle out of school and back home. We'd get out of the gate and go up to the Toyota Showroom – of course, it wasn't there back then – and then go along the lane up until we hit Ganesh Khind Road, and then cycle up our way back home. Sometimes we'd stop at Sunita Pineapple Juice for a glass or two, or sometimes we'd stop off at Om Supermarket for a bottle of Thums Up. Further up, there was a sugarcane juice guy who had about started giving us bulk discounts.

Traffic was next to non-existent in those days, especially so at around four in the afternoon, which was when school would get over. Broad leafy lanes with no one but ourselves, we'd cycle away the miles, talking of this that and the other, laughing at what had happened in school and hoping the India won the match the next day. Pune was a joy to cycle around in those days – it truly was. You'd have the occasional car, the odd scooter vrooming past you, but you had the right of the road for the most part.

And especially so in Model Colony. The little lanes and bylanes in that place were used to learn how to ride a bike, to cycle away the hours, to stand and chat for hours on end. Guys would gather at the far end of Chittaranjan Vatika for chai and sutta, and to appreciate the many joys of bird watching. Katta culture, in other words.

A wonderful place to be; it really was.

And today, at the far end of my school lane, there is a big new mall.

I get it, I get it. I really do. It is inevitable, and necessary and I get the economics behind it.

But that was my lane. It was at the heart of my city, my neighbourhood. It was quiet, and leafy, and isolated – and now it is not.

Pune has lost an aspect that was at the centre of it's very ethos, and for once, I don't appreciate the pun.

I don't like the mall at the end of my school's lane.

Some leetle more updates, wogay?

Haan then. I don't have much else to offer in terms of updates – half formed ideas really, but I want to get them off my chest before I begin talking about Pune again.

The budget came and went, and I don't have an opinion on it.

Summer is here and it sucks. But the beer will taste better.

Raj Thackeray got us what we were truly lacking. Maharashtra is now right up there in the Crazy States stakes. Laggards for many a year while other states and leaders stole the limelight; we're now firmly back in the reckoning, and for a couple of proud days, we were actually the undisputed leaders. Many thanks, sir. Keep up the show, and we'll soon have the potential to aspire for global domination.

The mighty intellects that run the city of Bangalore have a new rule in place. You cannot dance – in discotheques. This is not news, but I found out about this recently. Personally, it makes no difference – Kulkarni cannot dance to save his life. But the proud flag bearers of lunacy in Bangalore implement this rule with missionary zeal. Bouncers in discos now keep an eye out – for people who dance.

As you can see, Raj sir, you have stiff competition. Once again, I urge you, don't rest on your laurels – the competition is already catching up.

Andhra Pradesh has recently announced waivers for marginalised everybody. Sharad Pawar, mightily displeased with young upstart Raj for his underhanded attempts at stealing the thorny crown, roared back into contention by asking for waivers for all kinds of farmers. The two hectare rule be damned – fish farming, horticulture, sericulture, floriculture – all should get waivers. Ganja addicts are ecstatic; growing weed at home may now enable you to get a loan waiver from the government.

India did not quite Chak De in Chile. Ric Charlesworth plays the role of the spurned lover with heart breaking sincerity, and a gent called Jyothikumaran mutters darkly about the dark days in hockey. KPS Gill, or Nero – call him what you will, stands proudly amidst the ruins and proclaims that all is well with Indian hockey. Pun permitting, may we suggest a pinch of reality?

And many other instances which go to show that we are as mad as we ever were. Which is good – nothing has changed while I was away, and the new world is as loony as the old. Bugs Bunny, poking his head out after a long nap, would have nodded approvingly.

And now, if you'll excuse me. We have important things to talk about, and Roopali beckons.

Pune eet ess, eet ees, eet ees!

Hello Strangers. How you do?

Now what to say? Really, now what to say?

Unforgivable, I know. Unpardonable, without a doubt. And I have no real defence either. Other than laziness.

Which, come to think of it, makes for perfectly good sense, so we'll let it rest at that.

For those of you who have been waiting with bated breath for the instalments on Pune to continue, fret not, worry not and draw in a rather large sigh of relief – the word on the streets is that your wishes shall be fulfilled. But in the meantime, Kulkarni wishes to update you about other things that he would have pontificated about had he been blogging in the recent past.

First off the bat – and that is a very appropriate idiom to start with – take a bow, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. They've been at you for ages, and they would like nothing more than to see you out of the team; and that for reasons which they know best.

You have been called the most selfish Indian cricketer and worse. You have been likened to a pachyderm, and that's been one of your kinder descriptions in the recent past. An old so and so, out of touch with modern cricket, and playing only for the sake of your advertising contracts. Not because you merit a place in the team; not because you still are, without doubt, the finest batsman in the Indian cricket team, not because there is none who can replace you – but because you play for money. A mercenary cricketer, in other, blunter words.

And you ignore them, as well you should, and you play on. You score nearly five hundred sublime runs in the Test series, and you are right up there in terms of runs scored in the one day matches as well. The imp is back – witness the cheeky lift over slips, as is the master craftsman – cherish the full blooded drive past the bowler. The runs are back, the flow is back, the master rules once more. But your critics lick their wounds and bide their time. And again you will fail to score, and once more they shall roar. For they know of no greater happiness, Sachin – their greatest joy is in bearing witness to your despair.

Ignore them, Tendlya. Ignore them and play on; for you know nothing better. You play because you want to play, and because there is none better. That was true then, and it is true now. And until the little boy inside you wants to – play on. May it be true for many matches more.

As for the many wise heads in India – they've never understood you. And as Don Mclean sadly noted many years ago, perhaps they never will.

Sorry. No, really. Sorry.

I know, I know.
It's been ages.
More than a month, and what little there is of my loyal readership is greviously disappointed.
"How can he do this?" they moan, and wring their h. in d.
Every day (or so they tell me) they log on and eagerly check for updates, and everyday they have to face the stark truth.
Kulkarni, that lazy slacker, that fat so and so, that Billy Bunter of bloggers, is doing what he does best.
He's doing nothing.

Pshaw. Pah. And other words, similar in spirit, that begin with p.

For up his rather capacious sleeve, Kulkarni hides some aces. For the past week or so, he has been chilling in Pune. Taking a well deserved break from Excel and it's charting capabilities, and from the many splendored joys of Namma Bengaluru.
But not, me hearties, from blogging. He has built up, in the somnolent afternoons and the increasingly stuffy nights, a squirrel's reserve of blogs, which he shall reveal upon going back to his South Indian abode.
Promise.
Wait with baited breath then, dear readers, as you have thus far. But this time, with a small spark of the reawakening, with a faint sighting of the light that may lie at the end of the tunnel, and with the last remaining resident of Pandora's dabba for company.

And really. Sorry.