Thursday, December 25, 2008

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.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

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.

Friday, December 12, 2008

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.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

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.