Bhelcome to Heppy New Year 2008

Hellos children.
Kulkarni Ungaal is back in bijhness in 2008, and here's wishing all my loyal readership a very heppy 12 months.
It's been a hectic time for yours truly - I attended a couple of weedings (well, I meant to type out weddings, but perhaps my subconsciousness got it right there) in the last couple of months, and the great funeral procession has finally started. One by one, the brave and valiant brothers who call themselves my peers are being led up to be guillotined by people who claim to be their well-wishers. It's started, and this year, it threatens to become a landslide.
Sigh. Well, sooner or later. Had to happen types se hai.
Self is uncomfortably aware that Damocles blade is swinging over self's cranium with a rather more enthusiastic oscillatory motion this year, but self will cheerfully ignore it. Hah, so there.
Apart from that, life consists of getting busier at office, watching movies (Taare Zameen Par - take a bow, Aamir Ungaal), reading books (A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson, and The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by the self same chappie - he can take a bow as well) and other such mundane stuff.
I know, I know. But now what to do.
But anyways, that and all that and all that stuff aside, me be wondering about what to write on the blog this year.
More poems? More short stories? More reminisces about Pune? All of the above? None of the above and a whole new direction altogether?
Or, as has been the proud tradition till date on Life Beyond Gokhale, write when inspiration strikes?
Me, as usual, be wondering.
Hmmm.



----------------
Now playing: Dire Straits - Telegraph Road

Wah.

Aamir bhai, salaam.

For Ninety Minutes

Brothers will no longer be brothers.
Bonds that have lasted years will be broken.

Choice abuses will traverse oceans, and ill will will be in the air.
Events and circumstances that will make one wince in pain will make the other dance with joy.

8000 miles away, two brothers will, for the duration of ninety minutes, not be brothers.

And when the skies have cleared and the sun shines through again, one of us will call the other and laugh hysterically. And the other will suffer in silence.

And after those crucial ninety minutes, we will be brothers in arms again.

After Man. Utd. thrash Liverpool's sorry ass, that is.
There will be an opinion to the contrary in the comments below soon enough, but you know how it is with those Liverpudlians. Now what to do?
:)

C'est La Vie. Sometimes.

I have late breakfasts.
I listen to Kishore Kumar songs.
I read a book - start to finish - in one day.
I watch a football game in the evening.
And I'm asleep by 11.


On Saturday.

Kulkarni wishes to defend himself. In dignified tones he addresses the multitude who howl at him in disgust. He does not stoop to such civilized acts every weekend.
No sirree.

Even today, Kulkarni goes to Pecos for the express purpose of having breakfast and comes back home at eight in the night.
Even today, Kulkarni rides through the night to reach Pune to attend a wedding in Jalgaon.
Even today, Kulkarni can drink through the night - and every now and then, Kulkarni does so.

But there are weekends when Kulkarni likes nothing more than to wake up at 10 in the morning, have a heavy breakfast, lie in bed with a nice thick book. And c'est tout.


When I get bored of the usual excitements in my life.

Yeah, it happens. To all of us. Eventually.

I've got a coupla grey hairs on my head. And like it or not, so do you.

And contrary to the voiceferous opinions of the many wise-asses who pretend to be bosom buddies, I have more than one colour of hair on my pate.
Hah.

Wearing 'em down

I left my yellow slippers back in Boston.

I didn't want to - they'd grown nice and comfortable - but there was no room in the bags. Gifts and daaru bottles and clothes and books took precedence.

But I wish I had my old yellow slippers.

Because you know how it is with slippers, right? When you buy them, they're not very pliant. Tough and uncomfortable, they pinch your feet and don't bend when you walk.

Over time, as you wear them everyday, they grow a little softer. Your weight (and in my case, that is no understatement) wears down the hard edges and the slippers develop little grooves around the shape of your feet. The slipper becomes a little soft, a little old, and a little more comfortable.

Eventually, your slipper can be worn only by you. The grooves become pronounced, and they fit closely and snugly around your feet. They become your slippers. And you know that this will happen.

But as with all good things, that takes time. And in the case of slippers, you have to wait a good couple of months.

So as I said, I wish I had not left my old yellow slippers back in Boston. I had them for over a year and a half, and they'd become mine.

I have new ones now, and I have a couple of months to go.
Before my slippers become mine.

A Theist! I'm A Theist!

Really, I am one now.

And you would be one too, if you got to hear about this.

Kulkarni has always maintained - and loyal readers and dear friends will be well aware of this - that drinking beer is a religious experience.

It elevates and it enlightens. It educates and it ennobles.

That it also makes you happy is a positive side effect that proves the benevolence of the Almighty One above.

But above all, the act of drinking beer is a holy, spiritual experience.

And what brings the beatific smile to the face is that fact that there are people on this planet who think making beer is a holy spiritual experience as well.

Talk about symbiosis.

To all you Belgian monks with vows of silence and mugs of ale - a reverent round of cheers.
:)

Back where I belong

The blog's back in Bangalore, ladies and ledas, and both the blog and the blogger are bhaery pleased about it.
A warm welcome to bhaisaab - brother's blogging, and he be here. Also, to reiterate: he be.
Gentle prods to other brothers who have become the lazy slugs they are - yes, I mean you, and I mean you.
Not that self is particularly active at the best of times, but it feels nice to be pointing fingers.
Haan, so anyways - Bangalore.
Which will mean more tales of Pecos, more tales of bike rides, and more tales in general.
Promise.
Home sweet home.
:)

One Upon. The Inversion. Revelation.

Kaisa no? That flash of insight on a lazy Monday afternoon?
There you are, headphones on ears, listening to streaming radio and not doing that amazingly interesting chart with the squiggly lines that will count as your next project.
There you are, Wikipedia and varied blog sites open in front of you.
Not reading 'em, not doing your job, and janrally whiling away the hours.
When the flash strikes.
The slouch goes, the hairs stand on end and you get that brand new insight into your life.

Which is when Kulkarni starts typing out the new blog. And if you're reading this on a lazy afternoon when you wish the wiggly lines would go and stuff themselves in their homes, you'll thank me for this.
You're welcome.

No but seriously. Dawdling, dilly-dallying apart. Spiritual revelation has just tingled the undersigned's spine.

And what caused the tingling was this:
Anish and Noel (two biraadar log, and that's all you need to know if you don't know who they are) had come over here for the weekend.
And in that proud, time-honoured tradition that seems to define my closest buddies - we did two days of nothing.
And on Monday - we're all back to vacuum. Waiting for the next weekend when people of our tribe meet, beer consumption goes up, Knopfler and people of his ilk strum in the background, and nothing happens.
And that time too will fade away, and we'll hug each other and say good bye, and slip into our Monday afternoons, waiting for that next magical time.

Arre but! Bhaisaab Phancy Dress!

What a bloody waste of time no! How can we be doing this to ourselves - bright, intelligent peoples like us? So many years to realise this seemple leetle insight?
Chya!

What on earth are we doing in far flung corners of the planet - slaving away on cool little laptops to draw squiggly lines that we know are total crap? Or designing chips, or figuring out default rates, or managing some company's accounts systems or whatever.
Pretending to like it for five days of the week so that a magical mystical oasis of a weekend can arrive?

Invert the damn thing, I say.
Apply our formidable intelligence, I say, to figuring out a way to stick in one corner of the planet - and there are no prizes for guessing which corner is being referred to - and make every day a weekend.
Figure out a business where the squiggly lines make sense.
Because they're made by us.
C'maaaaaaaaaaaan.

Let me know if you have a light bulb above your heads.
I'll be waiting in a far flung corner of the planet, drawing squiggly lines.

Pretty plis now. A treat at Pecos for the first viable idea.

Umm. Arre but!

Listen no, peoples.
An unnamed reader of my wonderful dazzling blog (ain't it just that? I know, I know. Thank you) says that the blog is good.
So what else is new, the rest of my devoted readership will wonder.
That same unnamed reader then says that the Pecos short story kicked ass. As did the poem about the childhood stuff.
The d.r. is now scratching it's head in faint bemusement.
"Is this" the d.r. wonders, "the same Kulkarni who had us all under his spell so effortlessly in all these posts past? And if so, then why is he saying the obvious again and again?"
"Bhaat naansense!" they'll mutter beneath their breath, promising themselves that they'll not stand much more of this tripe.
Patience, brethren and the hot girls who read this blog, patience.
Kulkarni, as always, has an ace up his sleeve.

You see, this same reader also mentioned that the other posts were so well liked because all the travelogues got a leetle beet boring.
Sigh.
I mean.
Really? The travelogues are boring?

Looky Who's Here!

Leetle beet of a digression from the tale at hand, ladies and ledas.

A warm welcoming round of applause to the latest entrant into the blogosphere.

Beer drinker, buddy, biraadar.

And now a blogger.

Say hullo to GTya. Welcome, bhaisaab.

Heppy Budday!!!

One whole year of attempting to entertain the world with my rantings, my ravings, and the odd modicum of common sense.
A year when the blog, and I, shifted base from Pune to Bangalore.
A year in which I discovered Pecos, discovered Sahib Sindh Sultan, and the white hats that the Bangalore police wear. Which, on reflection, is about all that can be said for the city. Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad place at all - but this is about all that's better than Pune. A point that I may have occasionally touched upon over the last year or so on this page.
A year in which I discovered that I can ride a bike when Bacchus is in complete control of my faculties - and I certainly am not.
A year in which I discovered that I can ride the bike when in deep slumber (also a year in which I found out that Monsieur Castellino most certainly can NOT, but we'll let that pass), and most importantly, I can stay alive when we combine the two scenarios.
Not that I intend to do anything of the sort ever again.
Ever.
Mother promise.
My faith in beer, and all things Epicurean has been reaffirmed this year, and for the record, there is no place in Bangalore that makes tiramisu or mousse better than Ameeta (Amya, hint, hint!!!).
The two Amreekan biraadar log made thier annual pilgrimage to Dharti Maa, and both reunions were fittingly non-sober. I suspect there may be the odd flare-up with both of them for having called them by their correct nomenclature ( for they claim they're anything but Amreekan), but now what to do. Anything west of the Juhu Chowpatty...
The past twelve months have included one crazy ass trip to Mysore, one epic journey to Goa, one solo ride to Pune, and my first Bullet ride (to Chikmaglur).
Oh yeah. Also the year in which I discovered the true reason for earning money. Buying Bullets.
The memories of Gokhale and Pune grow ever more acute with every passing day. The smallest event, the most inconsequential of triggers can bring so many memories flooding back, and come to think of it, that's no bad thing. Memories are nice things, because they serve to remind you of the blast that was the past, and also because they give you something to work towards. Onwards to Pune, biraadar log - Dream On!
Raindrops fell on my head through the year, as they did on the pates of most of my mates, but the sun shone through again.
We got by with the help of our friends, in time honoured fashion.
Mallya pitched in as well. :)
Lots more that happened, and lots more that the Man up above has scripted for us, I'm sure (achcha?!)... but all in all, the jury's verdict is:

Life's Good.
Here's to another year of merry blogging.

Cheers, All.

Where is your home?

It's a hot and dreary afternoon on a Friday that moves like a clock with a broken down mechanism..
I'm working on a project about which I could not care less if I tried to, and the day can't end soon enough, far as I'm concerned.
And much in the manner of my peers and my ancestors, and all other kinds of living organisms who've had a heavy lunch on a lazy day, I close my eyes, ignore Microsoft Excel, and try and imagine I was elsewhere.
Which, in fact, prompted me to open my eyes and type out the bilge that you're reading.
Moral of the story: Be grateful, you ungrateful little wretches. You're reading this tripe because the author saw it fit to forego his siesta for your pleasure.
To return now to what I'm going to call, for the heck of it, the point of this blog.
When you, suitably loaded with a lot of oily spicy victuals, close your eyes and imagine yourself to be elsewhere - where is that elsewhere?
Put in another (simpler) way, where is your home?
Mine - I've been wondering.
Is it at my home in Pune, on my bed with the curtains drawn, the fan on, and Knopfler on the stereo? Or is it in the hostel, back in Jacob's room, with pleasant thoughts of some lecturer droning away in the classroom on Harrod's seminal paper?
Or maybe at Binoy's place, with lunch finally done, and slumber a prime priority? Anish's living room, some inane movie on, and the three of us snoring away? Naani House - now that's a possibility - with all the buddies, the entire jhing-bang lot of 'em - ah, those many glorious afternoons. Or even at 202 Hightech, with Noel and GT and I, and a couple of crates of beer. Dennis' room at the NITIE hostel, with his humbling collection of music.
Choices, choices.
But wait a minute - stop the presses. As usual, Kulkarni bursts through with his razor sharp intelligence, his stunning acumen, his blinding intelligence, and presents the conclusion that crushes the problem to holy oblivion and back.
I'd rather be with mah buddies than here.
That, ladies and ledas, is home for me.
Oh, and beer. Buddies and beer.

The irritating part about those guitar strumming idiots one listens to on radio is that every now and then, those pullers of strings come up with a turn of phrase that hits the nail on the head.

There's this guy, decent enough singer, who's come up with "Quarter-life crisis".

Now, don't you go about believing what people tell you... it's scary, the kind of nonsense they come up with these days... but certain people have been indulging in baseless and downright tawdry gossip about how yours truly is due to turn 25 in a couple of months.

Now while that is indisputably untrue... I turn 21, actually... it does set one to thinking about what it is that one needs out of life and other such weighty stuff.

You know how it is, suddenly, the question of the hour is no longer "Dude! It's four in the morning. Where on Mother Earth are you going to get beer now?", but something more suitably appropriate.

As in say, "Dude! What am I doing with my life man?"

(And the correct answer to that, especially at four in the morning, is as follows: " Finish that beer, you little $%^&^%^&%$^#, and I'll get us another couple. Saala ^&&*^&*$%^#$$%.")

But don't you worry, dear reader. Fret not, and fume not. This is not a weighty discourse about deep philosophical issues and all that.

This is much more immediate, much more pressing, and much more urgent.

I'm single.

Which, contrary to all the bravado espoused by single guys the world over, is not to the good.

Deep in our heart, we all dream of the doe eyed wondrous maiden, who with her beguiling charms, shall make blundering drooling simpletons of the lot of us, and lead us out of the damned dungeons of bachelorhood. She'll have that wonderful mellifluous voice, that wonderful soothing touch, that wonderful curvaceous body, that wonderful soulful smile... you know the routine, no brethren?

Yus, yus... we all the dream.

And we all the search, and we all the hope, and the gape, and all that jazz.

But if those baseless (which they are) rumors (which they are) hold some water, then the sand runneth out rather rapidly.

And therefore, Kulkarni has now donned the Googlian avatar. He searches, high and low, far and wide.

He joins libraries, he polishes his bike, he scourges Orkut, he may even manage to bring up the courage to smile at his pretty neighbours one of these days. And if a miracle occurs, it might even be when she's looking at him.

But no matter the time, effort and money involved, there will be a Girlphriend For Kulkarni.

The search is on.

All manners of suggestions that will expedite the search are welcome, and if any of the aforementioned doe eyed beauties wish to sign up for the New and Improved GFK programme, membership is free.

Not necessarily for life.

P.S. On an entirely unrelated note, Tom Cruise is considering suing the undersigned for thematic infringement of a trilogy that he (Tom cruise, not the undersigned) completed recently. The undersigned refuses to comment.

A Bumper Crop of Hair

'Twas a typical Sunday afternoon.

Lazy and somnolent, laidback and staid.

Lunch was being consumed at a leisurely pace in a restaurant that had as it's motto that admirable Latin phrase, Festina Lente. Pleasant and unhurried thoughts of an afternoon spent dozing were floating at the back of the mind, and all in all, it was all as it should be. Zzzzzz types, if you know what I mean.

And in walked this beautiful lady, all wonderfully curvaceous and, well, bomb material.

And in the manner of guys the world over, GT and I glanced at her, glanced at each other and then proceeded to stare at her open mouthed until she passed out of sight.

The Holy Sabbath Special that had been dished out for our appraisal was on the wrong side of 30 by a decidedly wide margin... not that it detracted in any way from her oomph quotient... which was certainly in the blow-the-thermometer-wide-open range... but a young belle she certainly was not.

And with that reference to context firmly established, we proceed to the nub of the whole thing.

GT turns to me, quizzical smile on visage.

"Y'know, I think it's come to a stage where I prefer older women."

Me yawns, slurps down some more iced tea, and thinks of neither this nor that.

Having neither this nor that to think about, me turns to GT and asks, "When you say old, how old do you mean?"

Without thinking about it, that blasted excuse for a bag of bones says, "Ehhhh, I dunno... 25-30, I guess".

And having thought about it, this blasted excuse for a lot more than a bag of bones turns a horror stricken face towards b.e.f.a.b.o.b.

"Dude! That's not old... that's us!"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen (and by ladies and gentlemen, I mean my peers. People older than I are fuddy-duddies, and people younger than I have the curse and the wrath of Kulkarni upon them), we are now part of the quarter life crisis brigade. We have the money, and we have the job. We have the I-pods and we have the bikes. But Youth, that fair maiden of the days gone by, has broken up with us.

Age is catching up fast. Two hours of tennis looks to be a bit difficult, and you can't chug all the beer you used to. The ideal activity on a Saturday evening is a movie at home, and there are times when you end up having Dal Fry and Plain Rice for dinner.

Out of choice.

That and all that is acceptable. What is NOT are slanderous untruths.

Ashish Kulkarni, peoples, is not balding. He has a full, magnificent, wavy, sleek, black crop of hair, and anyone who suggests otherwise is a lying son of a lady dog, so there.

When... or rather, given the drought in this department, if and when Kulkarni gets a girlfriend, he'll have "thinning hair". That's right, the official party line then will be "Yeah.... getting on man... I've got a girlfriend. Oh, and I also have thinning hair."

And if the unfortunate day finally arrives when self and to be spouse traipse down the merry path of helly matrimony... then, on that day, I'll be balding.

But up and until those points in time, hear this, and hear this clearly.

I am NOT balding.

Yeah.

Part II of the Same Blog Post:

That was supposed to have been all for the day. That is where the camera pans out, the credits roll, and the dazed audience springs to it's feet and lauds yet another astonishing performance by Kulkarni in the blog writing department.

Change of plan, though.

GT's down with fever.

(Sympathetic clicking of tongues on cue, plis. Thankoo)

He's got rashes on his legs.

(More s.c.o.t.)

He's got a variant of the 'flu.

It's called Infectious Mononucleosis.

Also known as (sharp intake of breath, the rolls of the drum, and the wait for the climax)...

Also known as... "Kissing Disease"

GT's got the Kissing Disease. The fever, or the Kissing Disease, will subside in a few days, or so the doctors say. But until then, GT boy is caught up with Kissing Fever.

Ooh.

We've got our own Freddie Mercury.

Today's Thing To Do

Disclaimer: Both Noel and I were stone cold sober. Not a drop of alcohol. Nary a one.

No, seriously.

Haan, so here's the thing.
I came back home rather early from office, and we had time to kill. So Noel and I stepped out into the cold dark unforgiving night.
Headed out to a restaurant and drank cup after cup of coffee.
Chatted of this that and the other.
One of the thises, thats and the others included a plan to make fruit punch for Noel's Heppy Budday Party, so expect a post sometime soon about the carnage that is going to happen in Bangalore over the weekend. Keep a watch out for the headlines on the international news too, while you're at it. We might just make it on TV.
Haan, but this not be about that.
This be about the challenge that has driven us mad.
You know how restaurants have paper napkins, no?
Those square white pieces of paper. Those flimsy rags.
While fiddling around with one of them, me be thinking to myself "Hmm, so let's try and make this into a paper boat"
Go ahead.
Do it.
And let me know if you can. You know my address.
Unless I become a guest of the Indian Government over the weekend, it shall be the same.

The Awesomes - I

Hyallo peoples.

I have the purpose now. The glint in my eye and the fire in my belly. And if you can make the leap of the logic, you will deduce that I have a lot of fire.

Hah. Out joked you there, did I not?

Haan, so anyways, juvenile humour apart, here's the thing. I'm going to write about things that I consider awesome until I get bored of it. These could include people, things, companies, babes, beer... you get the picture. One blog posting per awesome.

Funda clear?

If you happen to have things in mind that you think are awesome, drop me a note, and I shall write about it, if I agree with your assessment, and if you pay me a beer. I'll write about it even if I disagree with your assessment and you pay me three.

And today's awesomeness is about Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.

The Man himself.

What the batter, no bhai log? Stuff of legend and all.

There's three different generations strutting around in India right now, puffing out their chests at the thought of being able to tell their kids, I saw Sachin bat in flesh and blood.

Three different generations that have lived and died with the flashing willow of the dimunitive one.

Three different generations that have heaped abuse on him for chasing a wide one outside the off stump, but hey, now what to do? The man is like that only. Sometimes he flatters to decieve.

More often than not though, the man has only flattered. And charmed. A beguiling charm that makes you draw in your breath and whistle in amazement at the sheer artistry of the magician.

It's become an all too familiar sight for us, Sachin walking out onto the field and taking guard. Usually, but not always, scuffing out a small line right ahead of leg stump,bat resting lightly on the right shoulder, held lightly across his chest, he'll survey the field, taking in the field placements.

A short, sharp jab of the head, a slight flex of the knees, another short sharp jab of the head, and India's favorite warrior takes guard.

And a nation holds its breath. Fathers drop their newspapers to the side, watching with keen eyed interest. The kids sit cross legged on the floor, chin cupped in hands, hoping against hope. Aunties rush in from the kitchen, hands smeared with dough. Crowds gather outside shops that have televisions, straining to catch a glimpse. And in the stadium, where a moment ago there ruled pandemonium, there now descends a tense silence.

Game on.

And then the bowler runs in, and delivers the ball.

And until the outcome is known, I swear to God, not a breath is drawn in India.

Right from the time he took apart Abdul Qadir in that farcical one day match in Pakistan, to present day, Sachin has provided us with the kind of entertainment that no other can. I'll be the first to admit that Dravid is technically a more correct batsman, and a more dependable one. Jacques Kallis can defend better than he can, sure. Ponting has won more matches for Australia, and if you had to choose someone to bat for your life, it'd be Steve Waugh... whatever that means.

Haan re baba.

But plis to be telling. If you had to choose between a Sachin Tendulkar straight drive, just past the umpire, all along the ground, with that spine tingling paradoxical combination of flair and compactness, and any shot that these other gentlemen might have to offer... hain?

The defense rests it's case, as those Amreekans say.

Cast your mind back to that time the curse of modern commentary, Navjot Singh Sidhu, had a sprained neck in Napier, back in 1994. And he of the funny voice strode out onto the field, and decimated the hapless Kiwis. 84 in 47 balls, and they still speak of him in hushed tones in those parts of the world.

Or the 1996 World Cup. 523 of the very best, 65 in the semi-final and yet, not quite there. That innings in Benoni, when he taught the Zimbabwe team, along with some members of his own entourage, about the art of batsmanship. The second test in ...Newfoundland, was it?... when he and Mohd. Azharuddin reminded the South Africans that hey, we can bat too you know.

And how.

Or when the king of the cricketing world paraded his sublime skills in Sharjah in 1998. Ah, those two glorious days.

The heartbreak of 1999. 136 runs chasing 272 to win. Exactly half the runs were scored singlehandedly by this man, and then they collapsed. Rumour has it that no one spoke to him a couple of days after, such was the anger within.

And on and on, one may ramble, for after all, there are so many memories the Bombay Bomber affords us.

But the one day that I shall never forget is March 1, 2003.

I'm not anti-Pakistan, at all. Certainly not in the ultra right wing kind of way.

But hey peoples, if it's an India v Pakistan cricket match, swarry! India all the way, plis to be yelling.

And on that day, boy did he yell.

In about 90 minutes of outrageous, out-of-this-world savagery, he destroyed one of the finest attacks of that World Cup, carrying India through to the Super Six stage.

There was much dancing on the streets that night.

Yeah, I like understatements.

And now, in the twilight phase of his career, he's still the talisman that he always was. There are others, and we bat deeper, and we chase better, and we're not as reliant upon him as we once were.

And we're more flexible, and fitter, and blah.

Yeah man... yeah to all that.

But I still don't breathe when the bowler runs in.

At Long Long Last

It's up and running, and please do have a looky.
www.18tillidye.blogspot.com

That Non-Bugger Barrie...

For the record, I stand corrected.
Wonderful movie.
Finely etched characters, wonderfully scripted tale, lovely cinematography, plenty of moving moments, and that boy Peter deserved an Oscar.
And yeah, yeah, yeah.... Barrie was awesome. Johnny Depp, ladies and gentlemen, can act.
Subliminal after all, dammit.

That Bugger Barrie

The title that you're seeing up there won by a very short head.
The original billboard had "Rastogi strikes again".
Readers who've stuck with me through thick and thin might remember a post about Chaman, king of the raving lunatics.
This weekend, he laid further claim to the title. And then some.
On Friday morning, at around nine, our man heads off from the hostel to the Institute, fully intending to spend a day in college, the good little boy that he is. Trouble is, as he ends up at the Insti, his enthusiasm wanes, his shoulders droop, and the ghost of Gokhale claims another victim.
First lecture: bunked.
After dawdling here and there, he logs on to this blog, and starts going through it's pages. Until he reaches the part about the Mysore trip.
Now, for reasons that needn't be gone into here, I've landed into what might euphemestically be termed hot water because of that post. And that's putting it mildly.
But it all turned out to be worthwhile... one of those investments that paid rich dividends in the long run.
For after reading that post and staring vacantly into space, at around ten thirty in the morning, Abhinav Kumar Rastogi rushes back to the hostel, packs his bag (one t-shirt, that's it) and climbs into a rickshaw, to hot-foot it to Pune Railway Station.
Objective: Catch the first train headed out to Bangalore.
We've all thought of pulling off madcap schemes like this. The urge to do something totally, completely, wildly mad, and let's think about the consequences later.
Hey, I should know. I went to Mysore.
To cut a long story short, Chaman landed up in Bangalore, and Pecos found a new fan.
Among other wild things that happened that day, (yes, yes, heh heh and all that, thank you very much), Noel, Chaman, Soumya and I managed to work our way through 11 pitchers in about six hours.
There are those who shall read what's written above and go "Wow! 11 pitchers... awesome stuff, man"
There are those knowing, experienced, wise souls, who shall raise a discerning eyebrow, and nod in approval. "Good, good, so you managed it in one day."
There IS a third kind of readership, but we shall be brave and try and ignore their pointed comments.
Which brings me to the title of this blog.
Did you know that Johnny Depp's character, the nutcase who plays J.M. Barrie in that movie, does NOT go and fall in love with Kate Winslet's character?
I mean, if all you knew about the movie was the fact that there's this dude, Barrie, who lives next door to this female, enacted by Winslet... would you or would you not think that they would like... you know.... fall in love at the very least... if not actually do stuff. Ain't that par for the course?
Apparently not! He goes and falls in love with the kids. And then writes that book, and then there's hullalaboo... but not once, apparently does he show the slightest interest in the woman.
I mean, dude! Get a life!
Which has got nothing to do with anything, yes, I know.
It's just a major grouse I have against Depp, Barrie and everybody associated with that movie.
And for the record, the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean isn't that hot either.
Sigh.
Gonna land up in hot water again.

And well, there you go...

I went back to Pune about a week back.
And I've got good news and I've got bad news.
Pune is as Pune was. The roads are as bad as they ever were, possibly worse. I know, I know, not humanly possible, but who ever told you the PMC was human? It's still raining as much as it ever was, and the lights still go at the drop of a hat. Yup, nothing's changed in Pune.
And now for the bad news.
College ain't the same when you're not in it.
It's a feeling that sticks with you throughout. You meet everybody, and that is a wonderful experience. All the teachers, all the buddies, all the supporting cast... and all that is to the good.
But the magic ain't there.
Everybody back there has his or her own life to lead, and although everybody will talk to you, you get the distinct feeling that you're part tourist, part visitor to a museum, if you know what I mean. It's like you've packed a pair of binoculars and gone on a trip to the past. You can see but please don't touch kind of visit.
The rooms have nostalgia plastered all over them, the corridors have memories, and worst of all, you suck at TT.
Old and all. I'm the one with the salary now.
Unasked for advice to those still in college. Not that you needed to be told, but peoples, please party.
Every night.