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?