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!