Dip Dip Dip

Friendship

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:05:09 GMT

True friends are those who hate the people you hate, no questions asked. :-)
Thanks harshada

Random rant

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:27:18 GMT

Every relationship needn't end in marriage.
Every marriage needn't end in children, right?

Why do married folk, even those who are unhappily married, want everyone around them married?

Is it a compulsory punishment for some sin everyone has committed in their past lives?

And what is it with married women who worry excessively about ticking timebombs disguised as biological clocks?

Is your offspring going to save the planet from total destruction in the year 2012, (which btw is just two years away) when as per a very reliable report on Live India TV the world will come to an abrupt end?? :-) In which case, why do I need to procreate? Your offspring will do the job, right??

I don't want children, what I want is a hysterectomy!

Someone I never liked used to tell me, teri baat alag hai.
That's right. I am different, so sue me, will ya?!!!

Brain or kidney?

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:26:25 GMT

While one is always happy that one is in the pink of health, sometimes, one realises that one simply doesn't appreciate this fact enough.
A few days ago, for instance, I called KEM and asked for the neurology ward.
And they promptly transferred me to Urology.
I had an entire conversation with some woman, probably a nurse or an ayah, who kept asking me if I wanted to speak to some kidney patient.
And when I told her I had asked for N-e-urology, she said "Toh baraabar bolnekaa. Operator thoda behra hai, usko theek se sunaai nahi deta!"
To which I replied that I was glad I was not a patient due for surgery.

PS: Yes, yes. I know what you will say. They would have operated on my kidney instead of my brain -- which wouldn't make a diff, as that is where my brain is anyway! Ha ha. Very funny.
Now go and think of some other insult. Hah!

Life's tough when...

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 08:08:27 GMT

Good = Mediocre
Better is simply not good enough...
You gotta do better than the best...

Stop all the clocks

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 14:28:25 GMT

Am not much of a poet... nor a poem connoisseur. So, not surprisingly, I did not read this poem -- I first heard it in a movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and it moved me then. It is by WH Auden, and I find it poignantly beautiful... So much so, that there are silent tears in my eyes now when I read it...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Ding dong

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 16:14:04 GMT

Yesterday, my adopted mental 'son', Divyesh who thinks he has seen all that there is to see in this world and that nothing can shock him anymore, came up with one of his brilliant definitions about 'marital bliss' in an arranged marriage scenario.

Husband and wife get married, go to work, come back home, eat, ding dong.
Husband and wife wake up the next day, go to work, come back home, eat, ding dong.
You get the picture? (I hope not literally!)
On weekends, some more ding dong happens.
About a year or so later, bingo, a kid arrives on the scene
And then less ding dong happens.
End of story

It sounded funny. Till I spoke to totally unrelated people who agreed wholeheartedly with his theory, And then, it was just plain scary...

Thanksgiving after bird-day

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 12:26:21 GMT

I woke up feeling not so excited. Didn’t wanna celebrate a day that officially made me a year older…

But my birthday couldn’t have been more perfect. Took an off. Spent the day with family. Did things I like – like driving my aunt and gramma around in my car. And eat the wonderful grape-dessert made by Rups, my cousin.

Spent the entire afternoon answering calls. Thank you everyone who called and msgd for showering me with so much attention/affection. :-)
Watched a good movie in the evening. Yes, I liked Slumdog Millionaire, thank you very much. And so what if it ‘showcases’ poverty and the ‘tourist’ side of India. I don’t care – I liked it. Ring ring ringa. :-)

And in the night I met the gang. Its an annual gala affair where my friends shower me with love and ahem gifts.

Remember the old Chinese proverb? He who has good friends… is assured of good gifts. (Ok, I made that up. Heh heh). :-)

And I received books, more books, gold, more gold, perfume, a watch, a bracelet, a study haversack, a steam iron…

But the crème de la crème was an unexpected gift. A personalised calender featuring yours truly with all the people who matter in my life…

I know you guys went to so much trouble for it. And shall treasure it always…

Well, I always knew I was special, :-) but you guys made me feel so loved and wanted last night. So thank you:

Swats, who has patiently lent her ear to many an unending story of mine over the years,

Tom, who’s been there through all my ups and downs in life,

Gaurav, for helping us preserve Ladakh’s memories -- I just wish you could gift me half of your talent for taking the most amazing pics in the world,

Deepak, who has cheered me up on so many ocassions. So cheer up Baba. If life throws you a lemon, make lemonade, dilute it and sell it at double the cost,

harshada who is my most favouritest friend, travelmate and ‘so much fun’ and the best person to have (esp on a birthday) cos you can pick the best possible gift. The calendar is purrrfect!,

Pornya, who has jhol in her blood and who inspires me to embark on many a jhol-ful adventure and

Anshu, the coco-nutcase, with the tough exterior and the soft mushy interior

Nago, Punnu n Gsha (who's gonna pay for not comin!) had you three been there it would have been like icing on the cake… Sigh. But life is not a piece of cake, I guess...

I have said it before, but I really am grateful and feel blessed to have you all in my life. XO.

There I’m done with my emotional athyaachaar… Now I shall go back to being my mean wicked self :-)

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 15:31:59 GMT

I thought I was numb. But I was wrong. I was angry. Too angry to vent. I saw the train blasts too in July 2006. But this was different. I still can’t get over the fact that it took just ten guys to bring my city down…

The next few days, weeks passed in a blur… I met more victims. Heard more stories. Way too many stories.
Was saddened by what I heard about people’s experiences, particularly inside the two hotels and at Nariman House, and by what I experienced first hand, in the hospitals.
I met several policemen, over 15 of them, who had bravely fought the terrorists outside CST, at Cama and at Metro. Those who died were honoured. But noone ever mentioned the wounded cops, and there were so many.
And then there were the blunders that newschannels committed. None of them surprised me. And the arguments they gave to justify their blunders. They didn’t surprise me either. While I don’t say the print medium is above all this, at least there are less chances of print journos playing with people’s lives, due to the fact that a newspaper sees the light of the day only after 24 hours.
In many ways, the attacks brought to the fore the rich-poor divide. With the drama unfolding live inside the two five-star hotels, the media focus shifted out of the CST victims’ plight, which was unfortunate but inevitable.

And then I read about her in Times. She was on frontpage. The woman with the hole-in-the-head had gotten discharge from JJ and had gone to Chennai, where she finished last minute shopping for her wedding and then got married two days later…

I also found out the RPF cop was admitted to the railway hospital, was reunited with his family and was on his way to recovery.

During one of my many visits to JJ hospital, I saw a boy on a wheelchair, trying to playfully do a wheelie on it. Raviranjan called me and introduced me to his relatives, the ones that his sister-in-law had called that night. They had saved his leg, and removed the bullet from it – he showed the bullet to me. He was keeping it as a souvenir.

People, even those who were injured or those who lost loved ones, have forgotten (well, maybe not forgotten...) but moved on. Maybe it's a good thing after all...

I wish...

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 19:27:14 GMT

:-(
I wish I had a slate from which I could wipe out events that I don't like.
Wish I could wipe out all that has happened and all that I have seen.
Wish I could take Mumbai back to how it was before these cowards struck.
:-(

Meet the sexy Rakhi!

Sat, 22 Nov 2008 15:16:03 GMT

“Is it a boy or a girl?” our Bai asked last week.

“Boy, of course, can’t you see.” my mom said a bit amused.

“Then why have they named him ‘Rakhi’?” she asked. "These young boys -- they all like Rakhi Sawant and her assets!' she added venomously.

When mom managed to finally control her laughter, she told her “The dog's name is Rocky, not Rakhi.”

I heard Bai practicing Raaakhi’s name yesterday…with dogged determination. (Notice the pun?)

One would assume that a dog named after Sly Stallone's famous hulky character would be a bull dog or an Alsatian or a Doberman. But one would be terribly wrong in making that assumption.
Rocky, the ‘boy’ in question is our neighbour’s sons' pet Pomerian, who turned one recently…

Mom, who loves him like the son she never had, refers to him respectfully as Vellaiyaar, or the Great White (haired) One, which is Rocky’s Red Indian name. This, again Bai cannot pronounce. So dad’s come up with an alternative name – Kakdi.

Kakdi (cucumber) is Rocky’s favourite vegetable. And saying ‘Kakdi’ is also the only way to catch Rocky’s immediate attention.

He is a bundle of arrogant fur, you see, and he’s got a mind of his own. On many an occasion, I’ve seen him challenge the two cats in our building to a duel on who can ignore humans better… And he’s always won paws down. (another pun, what joy!)

I think it all comes down to attitude in this dog eat dog world. (Do I even need to draw your attention to this one?)

The way this pooch holds his tail high up haughtily when he struts around in our house, which by the way, he considers his kingdom, says it all. He also tilts his head and looks away in the other direction when we go hoarse calling out his name aloud. He makes it a point to ignore whatever goodies we offer him, unless its kakdi. And then too, he condescends to eat it only if the kakdi is peeled, diced into pieces of just the right size, and fed to him by hand, and not offered on a plate...

He’s the first canine I know who likes cucumber. Carrots, peas, assorted raw green vegetables and grated coconut are next on his list of favourite treats. Then come Maggie, curd-rice, milk-rice and non-veg, which our neighbours feed him.

Dad pretends he doesn’t like dogs. He thinks it’s imperative, or else, I will revert to my old habit of bringing stray dogs home again. Jojo, Blackie, Brownie, Snowy, Kalu and Ricky, named so because he lost his leg after coming under a rickshaw, have all tried to make themselves comfortable in our house at some point of time. Three cats, a couple of pigeons, a baby crow who visited our house were also shown the door.

It used to rain cats and dogs in our house, quite literally, in those days. This was before the Prohibition of Access to Dogs Act 2004 was passed in the Iyer household. No dog has ventured in since.

But Rocky is the only four-legged creature who flouts this law. He’s gained my respect. And I guess Dad’s too.

‘Cos this is how Dad speaks to him in Marathi -- an alien tongue that he's furiously practicing his skill at, courtesy fear of retribution from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS).

‘Rocky, ikde yaa’ (Please come here…yaa being a respectable way of addressing elders). Rocky just trots away.
'Rocky, bassa' (Won't you be seated, please?) upon which Rocky furiously chases his own tail.

‘Rocky, jhopa’ (Please sleep) upon which Rocky barks his head off like every other annoying Pom I know.

‘Rocky, jhevaa’ (Won’t you kindly eat something, please?) and the bugger after casting a disdainful glance in the direction of the plate, walks away with his tail held high.

“Patti (dog) eats and shits here, but obeys the damn neighbours!” says Dad, who thinks one should not only Not love thy neighbour but one should Not let one's neighbour's dog love the aforementioned neighbour either. Nevertheless, it's dad’s daily ritual to try to get Rocky to ‘shake hand’. To which Rocky gives a look that eloquently says: ‘What!! There’s no way I’ll shake hands with a lowly human being.’

You thought you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? What do you know! You can’t teach a young dog new tricks either, if the canine in question is Rocky.

Walking the dog is a chore that the neighbours have benevolently bestowed upon yours truly. I believe they are trying to secretly teach me the virtues of patience. For there are rules that need to be followed. Every tree trunk has to be circled and sniffed, every car tyre has to be wetted, every other dog or cat you meet en route has to be intimidated with fierce growls, the entire building compound is a jungle that this pint-sized lion has to mark as his own territory and no stone has to be left unturned in the search for gold or mud or moss or whatever lies under every stone…

Ever heard of the phrase, every dog has its day… if this is true, then I guess every day is Rocky’s day.

Train woes

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 15:48:22 GMT

I had planned not to rant about it -- but two days in a row is one 'two' much!
Yesterday, somehow by some sheer unprecedented luck, I managed to get a place to rest my butt in a really crowded local train. Even so, I was far from being comfortably seated in the stuffy and hot compartment, what with the less fortunate crowd of standees constantly falling on each other and on those seated.
And a woman elbowed her way to where I was seated and thrust her five-year-old son at me and said, 'Isko zara god mein bitha do' (Will you seat him on your lap?).
So, I replied with a curt "Nai."
And the reaction my negative response evoked has to be seen to be believed. Her maternal instincts awoke like a disturbed tigress and she gave me a dirty look and said, 'He's just a kid." To which, I gave my oft-used response, "He's your kid. When You get a place to sit, he can sit on Your lap."
Now my point is, she asked me for a favour and I refused. When you ask someone for a favour, there are always two possibilities. Either that person will say yes or no. And that person has an equal right to agree or refuse.
I believe I had the fundamental right to refuse to allow her son to sit on my lap. Besides I am not a public bench in a park on which someone can dump their kid for about 40 minutes.
Now for incident No: 2. It being Sunday, the crowd on the train was entirely different from the experienced office-going crowd I usually encounter on weekdays. This crowd has no idea about the fine technique of boarding a train, nor does it know the correct manner of standing or sitting in the train.
Another thing I hate about Sundays is the fact that the train is always over-crowded, regardless of whether it is peak hour or not.
So having missed three trains, I gave up and managed to board a jam-packed train. And much to my delight, after a lot of jostling, I managed to find a comfortable place to stand by the door. A couple of stations later, a fat Gujju woman boarded the train, along with her daughter, who in turn had a kickig and screaming infant in her arms.
"Let her stand in your place -- she has a child in her arms," said the woman to me.
That essentially meant jumping out of the train, cos there was absolutely no room for movement. So I said, "Where do you want me to move? I can't move. The train is so overcrowded."
And she said, "Exactly. That's why I asked you to move."
Now, how can I fight that logic.

Well, that's it! I want this magnet on me that attracts these mothers to me turned off pronto!!! Are you listening?

This jailhouse rocks!

Tue, 21 Oct 2008 10:53:12 GMT

On October 2, Gandhi Jayanti, Poorni and I went to Taloja Jail. While Poorni had a story to do I went for the ride. Well, actually I wanted to visit a jail, to satisfy my morbid curiousity.
Not many who have gone to jail will say this, but It was a wonderful experience. Taloja is the state's largest prison, can accommodate over 4000 inmates and was inaugurated recently, after about Rs 80 crores were spent to build it.
But in September, after having taken in 500 inmates, the jail authorities closed Taloja's doors and refused to take in any more prisoners. The reason? The entire building was leaking -- the jailor even pointed at leaky ceiling directly above him -- there was no electricity in some of the barracks and very inadequate water supply. Conditions in jail, the jailor said were inhospitable.
However, Taloja is every prisoner's dream prison -- the jail has no fencing! Security arrangements like the live-wire are yet to be installed. And the police officials have no guns.
On paper all of this is in place.
Where has the 80 crore gone? the jailor, poor fellow disheartened at being posted in the remote jail, with no chances of making money on the side, wanted to know. Taloja is what is known as 'punishment posting.'
So having jotted down the jailor's complaints, we took a stroll around the prison. Visited the kitchen, which was very tidy, the barracks and even the anda cell -- the high security jail within the jail -- named so because of its circular shape. The cells in the anda cell are designed in such a way that inmates cannot see each other. And only the toughest most hardened of convicts are lodged there, in a sort of semi-solitary confinement.
I stood in one of the cells for a couple of minutes, drinking it all in. I remember thinking, if I'm caught for any crime I commit and am sentenced to jail, I'd like that jail to be Taloja :-)

And here's the edit I wrote for the paper:

The newly-inaugurated Taloja jail in Kharghar is so cut off from civilisation that on the way there, all we saw were barren acres of land and an occasional bird that flew past our vehicle, perhaps a little taken aback on seeing people.
Not surprisingly, we lost our way and frantically called the jailor to ask for directions but in vain. The call simply wouldn't go through. "Apna karagruha dongar-bingar ke beech me hai (The jail is surrounded by mountains on all sides, cutting off mobile network). We don't need to install mobile jammers here," he laughed, pointing out the silver lining in that dark cloud. Bending down to enter the tiny door of the gigantic entrance, we were alarmed to see a posse of policemen beaming down at us expectantly.
It being Gandhi Jayanti, a special 'karyakram' (programme) had been arranged for the jail inmates. And the chief guest and his entourage were expected. The policemen saluted us smartly, making us think that they had mistaken us for the 'chief guests.' We hastened to give them our visiting cards. The jailor shook hands with us and gave us a rose each, while all the policemen waited for a signal from him to clap.
The 480-odd jail inmates, dressed in clean white uniforms, assembled in neat rows, waited expectantly for a green signal from the jailor to sing the national anthem.
Much to our relief, the real chief guest walked in, giving us an opportunity to sneak away to see the rest of the jail. Led by our noses, we entered the kitchen. The sight of a neatly arranged thali, replete with katoris for vegetables, daal, and kheer, for the special day, greeted us. Perhaps it's not such a bad deal to go to jail, if this is the kind of food you get, we thought, mentally preparing a list of people we could murder.

Meanwhile the real ‘karyakram’ began. A man, lost in a trance, sang a personal version of ‘Omkaar Swaroopa’ -- we later found out he was in for murder. Perhaps he had sung someone to death, we thought.

Next the chief guest, jailor, his assistants and the local sarpanch gave speeches, while the 'captive' audience of prisoners looked on listlessly. And then, all of a sudden, we heard our own names being announced over the mike.

We reluctantly rose to receive a grand bouquet of roses from the jailor and a thunderous applause from the silent crowd of convicts and undertrials who had maintained a stoic silence so far. Clearly, the inmates of the state's largest prison wanted to have a say in who could be invited as chief guests in prison. ‘Desperados’ is the word that came to mind.

Funny man

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 14:51:19 GMT

My dad is the King of ‘dropping subtle hints’. Asia Net, which is No 1 on the priority list of channels on our TV, was showing an interview with Mallu actress Navya Nair last Sunday. And I was forced to watch it with Dad.
It was a typical interview. Started off with several people from the actress’ life speaking about how cute she was as a child and how they knew the moment she was born that she would achieve great fame. Her teachers spoke about how much of a ‘midki’ (smart) she was in class, in sports, in cultural activities and generally in life. She had won many prizes for drama, Mohiniattam cooking, washing and even ‘pookalam-putting’ (which is the floral rangoli that Mallus make). And so we watched, me, dozing due to boredom and dad probably reminiscing about the good old school days in Kerala.
Please note: We were watching it at a volume of 10 (the maximum permissible decibel in the Iyer household, which is perpetually worried about taxing the neighbour’s eardrums). Never mind that the Gujjus below celebrate Navratri by playing disco dandiya at 120 dB (which any doctor will tell you is enough to perforate the eardrum).
And then there was the actual interview with the actress. Typically, the first question was ‘So when are you getting married?’ To which the actress coyly replied that ‘It is not in my hands.’ “Achchan and Amma (Dad and mom) will decide,” she blushed a shade of red visible over her South Indian dusky skin.
The volume suddenly rose to 20. Double the usual. Volume reserved for real breaking news, like bomb blast, earthquake, floods etc, -- news that is not shown on India TV.
And I rose from my stupor, to catch the next few lines. She was saying: ‘Love marriage is out of question. I don’t believe in love marriages,” Volume: 25 now.
“There is too much compromise and responsibility involved in a love marriage. Love marriages are difficult to handle,” I didn’t get her logic, but I did notice that the volume had now risen to 35.
“My parents will find a nice eligible guy from a good household for me. I don’t intend to go against my parents’ wishes,” she continued at a volume of 40.
“I will marry whoever they point out to me. I want a nice family and children, blah blah Blah BLah BLAh BLAH BLAH,” Volume rose to 47. And I left the room, partly to laugh my head off and partly to answer the doorbell which had probably been rung by my angry neighbours to complain about the volume.

The breathless beauty of Ladakh

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 14:57:08 GMT

I will always remember Ladakh for its colours. The mountains, rivers, lakes, gompas (Buddhist monasteries) and even the quaint little houses have distinctive hues. But more importantly, believe it or not, I too changed colours in Ladakh.

My lips turned red, burgundy and black, palms turned a shade of green and fingertips blue. My hair turned brown and cheeks turned pale white. My recent trip to Ladakh has left me red-faced, literally.

So the first advice I would give anyone going there is to carry all their woollens, and then carry some more.

There’s an oft-quoted Ladakhi saying, or should I say, warning: anyone whose head is in the sun and feet are in the shade in Ladakh will endure both heat stroke and frostbite at the same time. You’d do well to heed it.
The second thing that everyone should carry is two bottles of sunscreen – you’ll need them both.

Ladakh means ‘the land of high passes’ and these passes – Khardung La, Chang La, Tanglang La, Baralacha La, Lachulung La -- are at an amazingly high altitude. Khardung La, at 18,380 feet, to give you an idea, is the world’s highest motorable road.

So there is a distinct possibility that you may be battling a blizzard in one of the passes and half-an-hour later you may encounter a sandstorm in the desert valley. And the temperature, which in the winter dips to -50C, may condescend to rise to zero in summer. Make sure you dress appropriately or say hello to chillblains, frostbite and hypothermia.

If the extreme temperatures don’t rattle you, there’s always the altitude. Ladakh, most of which is upwards of 3,500 metres above sealevel, is a high altitude cold desert which means apart from no food, water and vegetation you also deal with lack of oxygen. Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), which chances are you will definitely suffer from, causes among other things, vomitting, nausea, headache and hallucinations. You take five steps and you halt for five minutes. If you take ten, it warrants a ten-minute halt. You get the picture. “The beauty of Ladakh leaves you breathless,” gasped Harshu, while doing the step-halt-routine. She was obviously hallucinating under the influence of AMS. heh heh

And if you are appropriately attired for sub zero temperatures and you somehow manage to acclimatise yourself, then there is always the possibility that you may die of starvation.

You have the option of having Tibetan momos stuffed with mutton, thenthuk, thukpa and chutagi, which sound like words that cannot be uttered at a family dinner table or good ol’ Maggie. Worry not, for Maggie will keep her date with you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Now that I’ve scared you out of your wits, let me clear some misconceptions. For starters, Ladakh is very much a part of India. The last time I checked you didn’t need a passport to go there.

For the uninitiated, Ladakh is, in fact, a part of Jammu & Kashmir, with Pakistan and China eying it with greed on either side. This, in turn, explains the heavy presence of the army in the area. In fact, so strong is the presence that lines of olive-green military trucks often cause unbelievably long traffic jams along the highways.

Army men from across the country, wearing special gear and boots that weigh four kilos each, huddle together quite forgetting their religious, linguistic and regional differences, offering each other joint protection from the forces of nature. But each time an Indian tourist shows up, their eyes sparkle with hope – the hope that the tourist may turn out to be from their hometown.

Movies like Border, Lakshya and LoC, you then realise, though portray the armylife, scarcely do justice to these sons of the soil. One armyman I spoke to said he was from Kolhapur, and insisted that we speak to him in Marathi. “My parents, even though they know that I am posted in Siachen, have no idea where it is,” he said. Sadly, that is how ignorant the rest of the country is too.

I hate goodbyes

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 16:36:08 GMT

Having moved cities every three years while growing up, I’ve developed a philosophical approach towards changes in life. I’ve come to accept that relationships with places/people come with an expiry date. But I guess that’s because I am the one who always moves on. And I’m mentally prepared for it.

I am stationary now. I can safely call Mumbai home for the next few years. Meanwhile, people around me are moving. And I can’t stop them.

This morning, Nago left for greener pastures. To fulfull his Great American Dream.

And I helped him pack his meagre stuff into two huge suitcases and a haversack. He took along so little that all of it could have been easily accommodated in just one big suitcase.

Last evening we watched our last movie together in a group. Nago, Tom, Deepak, Vasant and I. Walle is a fantastic movie. I heard myself laugh at all the right places. But I know I didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps my subconscious was not paying attention.

We bought his favourite gad-bad ice cream knowing fully well that it will be a long time before he gets to taste it again.

It’s so strange.

It didn’t strike me that he was going away when I helped him pack his bags. In went his clothes, dozens of formal shirts, trousers, jeans, a pair of brand new sneakers, chappals. Then the usual things that an Indian takes to the US – assorted non-perishable eatables, chaklis and pickles that will last him a month or two. It didn’t strike me then.

This morning, at an obscenely early hour, we made our way to his house. I saw last minute preparations. Tucking things into the half-empty bags.

And then we took what felt like a joyride in the Sumo to the international airport.

Deepak and Nago cracked their usual jokes. And we all joined in. I deluded myself into thinking we were going on another trek. To Harishchandragad, perhaps.

And then all of a sudden Nago vanished behind those great airport doors while his mother bade him a teary-eyed farewell.

I felt particularly bad for her. The only woman in a family of silent men. And now the most talkative member of her family was leaving her. A day earlier I had burst her bubble -- I told her it took a whopping 15 hours by flight to get to ‘America’. I think that’s when it struck her that America was not in India. Poor lady. I wish I had told her America was as close as Delhi…

And she had questions in her eyes: Who will cook for my boy? And who will wash his clothes?

I told her her son would have to fend for himself. “He’ll learn it all.”

But I’m not so sure of it myself. He may be a great trekker but deep down, like any grown up man, he’s a mamma’s boy. And he needs someone to look after him. And there’s a slim chance that he’ll find a ‘gory mem’ there to do his washing and cooking for him :-)

It didn’t strike me that he was leaving even when I saw him go out of our sight. Nor when I saw him bend down to take his parents’ blessings.

Nor when I hugged him myself to bid goodbye.

But now twelve hours later, as I write this, it’s sinking in. And little little tears are coming :-(

I know it’s not the end of the world. I know the world’s shrinking. I know there’s telecommunications, satellites, e-mail and all that jazz.

But will these fancy gadgets let him sit next to us in a movie theatre every week? Or let him lead us on our next trek? Will I get to see him get excited over being the first to reach the top of a peak?

Two years is not a long time. But two years is a long enough time, if you know what I mean. And today is Day 1. And I miss him already! :-(

Ladakh, ready or not, here I come!

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 11:11:06 GMT

As a 10-year-old, I had a pocket-sized 'autograph book.' I used to give it to people each time we shifted base -- which was very very often considering we moved every two or three years. You had to fill in details like your favourite food/music/destination etc. And naturally, I filled the first page myself so people knew what they had to do. (Yeah, yeah I was a very self-obsessed kid -- it comes with the territory when you are a single child) ;-)
I still have that book. My dream destination, it says, was Ladakh.
When I turned 15, we had something called a 'slam' book -- which was again a book which you gave to your classmates to fill. We made it ourselves and apart from the usual 'what's your favourite... ?' kinda questions we made up our own silly questions like 'Whom do you love the most?' Which place would you like to visit before you die?' 'What would you name your kid?' and so on and so forth.
The place I wanted to visit before I died was Ladakh.
And now, I will be going to Ladakh on August 15. The countdown has already begun. But apparently the universe doesn't think that I am ready to go yet... With due apologies to Paulo Coelho's Alchemist, which by the way, did not “change my life” at all, the Universe seems to be conspiring against me.
The situation in Jammu is still out of control. They just dug up the railway tracks with their bare hands and the highway is blocked. I don't see any chances of communal harmony being restored there in the next few days.
Gaurav, who was going to come on the trip, caught the flu, which strangely has left him with something called benign positional vertigo. He is too dizzy to stand, let alone walk. Although he is steadily recovering, there is a question mark over whether he’ll be able to make it. We're all praying like never before.
Nago, who has been sitting on the fence all along, still says he may be able to make it and he may not. Work beckons him in the land of opportunity and it would be silly to give it up. Mayur and Pornie who were initially going to come have backed out for inevitable reasons.
And then there were five.
All I know is that go there I most definitely will. Regardless of whether anyone else comes along or not. With due respect to the Universe and Co, I really don’t care what you all want. The world can go eat cake!

A good night's sleep, where are thou?

Fri, 01 Aug 2008 16:13:54 GMT

It’s very agonizing. For over a month now, I’ve been sleeping only on alternate nights. I lie awake in bed till 5 am.
Insomnia is not new to me. But it's never been this bad.
My eyes feel tired all the time and my head feels heavy. I’m so sleep deprived that I can see dark circles around my eyes.

And yes, I’ve tried deep breathing, relaxing, warm milk, a shower before going to bed, lying on the floor, lying on the bed, changing the bed, sleeping in a different room, counting sheep, reading, listening to soft music, and even a peg.
Nothing seems to work.
My eyes burn when I close them. So tomorrow, I’m going to my eye doctor. Maybe he’ll have a bright idea.

For the love of God and the country, go to Amritsar

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 15:49:27 GMT

Here's a long pending LJ entry...
And here's the confession: am just copy pasting what I wrote for the paper

Even as I write this, I can visualise the glint of pure gold in the morning sun. And hear a melodious soulful chant, which to ears accustomed to ‘dinchak’ remixes, sounds like sweet nothings whispered into the ear by a lover.
It was a fleeting trip to Delhi last December, but we were overcome by travel-lust, and so the four of us -- Harshu, Pornie, Punnu and me -- took the overnight Golden Temple Mail to Amritsar, jostling shoulders with a lot of swearing Sardars.

Sikhs from across the world dream of visiting this shrine at least once in their lifetime. The Golden Temple, apart from being famous for all the gold of course, is known for its four gates. These gates invitingly beckon people from the four cardinal directions – symbolic of an ‘open-door’ policy towards people of all faiths.
The aptly christened Golden Temple Mail from Mumbai, conveniently deposits you at Amritsar station just as the sun begins kissing the yellow mustard fields of Punjab. The dazzling beauty of the Golden Temple is worth viewing in its morning glory.
The Temple
The Golden Temple, or the ‘Harmandir Saheb’ as the Sikhs reverently refer to it, is just a five-minute ‘Vikram’ ride away (that’s what they call a six-seater in Punjab) from Amritsar station. Ladies, don’t forget to cover your heads with your dupattas. And gentlemen, a nice clean handkerchief will do.
The first thing that you hear when you enter the temple is a melodious soulful chant accompanied by the hum of a harmonium.

Several Sikhs, carefully unweave their turbans, set aside kirpans of assorted sizes, (I saw daggers, ornate swords and even spears) and proceed to take a dip in the pool. It is this holy pond around the temple that gives the city of Amritsar, literally meaning ‘the pool of nectar’, its name.

In the centre of the pond lies ‘Har ki Paure’ (steps of God), with its gold-plated domed-roof. Devotees read the Guru Granth Sahib continuously in the first floor of this building. Two things you must do before you leave the Golden Temple – visit the ‘langar’, or the community kitchen that serves the rich and the poor free food 24 hours a day, and eat the rich sweet ‘khaara prasad,’ from the temple.

Foodie’s delight

But if you’re still hungry after the delicious food from the ‘langar,’ fear not, for Amritsar is the land of dhaabas, which offer parathas stuffed with all kinds of vegetables, from potatoes, onion, garlic, paneer, cabbage to green peas and mint accompanied by huge dollops of butter. A word of caution: Don’t say no to butter, or you’ll face the wrath of the dhaaba-owner. Amritsar still lives in a world where the words ‘cholesterol’ and ‘diet’ have no meaning.

And for dessert, ask for Gurudas Ram Mithaiwala, 100-year-old sweet shop, a brisk five-minute walk into one of the lanes off the main road where the Temple is located. Or simply let your nose lead you to it. You are sure to spot a pot-bellied man frying the world’s best fresh jalebis at any given time of the day. Name anything that your sweet tooth desires, and you’ll find it there.

Jallianwala Baug

Ten minutes away from the Temple, lies the Jallianwala Baug Memorial, a reminder of that fateful day (April 13, 1919), when Brigadier Reginald Dyer ordered the British Indian army soldiers to open fire on an unarmed gathering of men, women and children.
The bullet marks still visible on the wall are an eerie reminder of tragic incident. Even more saddening is the sight of a well in the memorial – with a plaque that says 120 bodies were found in the well.

Attari-Wagah Border

And finally, about 35 kms away from Amritsar is the Attari-Wagah Border – the only road crossing between India and Pakistan.

Make sure you visit it at sun-set, when the Retreat Ceremony takes place with the tall and handsome moustachioed jawans from the Border Security Force (BSF) on the Indian side and The Sutlej Rangers on the Pakistan side putting up a spectacularly timed and co-ordinated display for the assembled tourists from the two neighbouring countries. The BSF jawans, it is said, have to practice their march for six months before they are allowed to join the parade.

Jawans from both sides simultaneously lower flags, shake hands for half-a-second (blink and you’ll miss it) and close the gates of the two countries shut with a loud clang, even as a jubilant crowd applauds thunderously and shouts of ‘Bharat Mata Ki Jai’ and ‘Hindustan Zindabad’ resound in the air. Call it momentary jingoistic fervour or what you will, but it is probably the most ‘Indian’ you will ever feel in your life, unless you join the armed forces.

Anything for a bit of publicity

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 15:42:43 GMT

So this dude from Aurangabad donated his blood about 90 times. Commendable effort, I readily admit. And he donated his blood platelets (which is quite different from blood) about 10 and half times. Very social-service oriented guy, this fellow.
And since I was doing a story on blood platelet donation, someone passed on his number to me. All I needed from him was a quote about his experience. But this guy, lets call him Mr Publicity-hungry, cos that's what he was, went on and on and on, for a good 20 minutes. Naturally, I switched off mentally after the first five minutes, and started multi-tasking. Meanwhile, he gave me the names of his wife, who had donated blood once and his children and a a list of publications that had interviewed him/featured him. And told me that he had written to the President asking for a recommendation/acknowledgement for his service to India.
Now an unfortunate side-effect to being a reporter is that you don't really have full control over what gets published in the paper. What you write and what gets published can often be two completely different things.
So the wise thing to do is to put the least important thing at the bottom of the article. That's where I mentioned Mr Publicity-hungry. And the desk, God bless their overworked souls, promptly edited him out of the article.
And a couple of days ago, he called me from Aurangabad and demanded an explanation for the absence of his name from the article. I duly apologised and informed him of the circumstances.
On hearing which he said, “You spoke to me for about half an hour, wasted money on my mobile and then didn’t print my name!!!?”

Now, a) I didn’t speak to him for half and hour. HE did all the talking. And b) I had called him on his mobile, at no cost to him whatsoever.

And then he said, “Had I donated blood in the US or UK, the government would have given me a medal”

That is when I lost my cool. And so I told him he should feel free to move to the US and donate all his blood there since the US is the only place which will appreciate his blood donation.

And then he went on to say that it was because of this attitude of the press that all good MBAs, engineers, doctors and other professionals were moving to foreign shores. Oh, btw, this is a retired businessman talking.
Of course I let him know what I thought of him.

I'm really glad that I did not end up giving publicity to a man whose intention while parting with his own blood is not to save a life but to see his name in the papers.
What a wacko!!!

Don't call her Aaji!

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:26:51 GMT

I have finally met my match. There is a very ‘young’ lady in Bhandardhara who would win hands down in a talkathon with me.

En route to Kalsubai, at Bhandardhara, about 20 minutes past Igatpuri, hunger pangs struck. We looked around knowing fully well that it was ridiculous to expect a hotel there. Everything was green and the mountains were too close by.

And then suddenly, we spotted it. A temple and a house surrounded by rice fields and a beautiful little garden with pretty little violet flowers and a swing.

They called the place Aashirwad. It was a hotel-cum-house run by a lady and her husband. Experience has taught us not to demand a menu at these places. They serve poha and ‘chaha’ (chai), which we ordered.

The husband-wife duo must have been nearing their seventies. But the first thing she told us was that she hated being referred to as 'Aajji' (Grandmother).

Once the rules were laid down -- no calling her aajji -- she opened up. In five minutes, we knew :

a) She loved the mountains and the rains .

b) She missed Bombay, her kids and her grandkids.

c) But still preferred the countryside.

d) She liked being busy.

e) And cooking and looking after her husband, whom she referred to as her 'bala' (baby)

f) And looking after their farmland.

g) She was worried about inflation – she had to pay Rs 90 a day for labour in the farm. It used to be Rs 50 earlier.

h) She did not like television and films. “It ruins the mind.”
i) She had travelled across the country
j) She loved speaking in English and reading newspapers.

They had lived in Ernakulam, Kerala for a while. She knew a smattering of Malayalam. So she immediately took to yours truly -- the pseudo-Mallu in the group. Then the family had lived for several years in Andheri with their two daughters and one son. The two daughters were married off to electrical engineers while the son was a software engineer. “Well-settled” is the word she used. Retired Indian parents favourite term to indicate that their child is married, earning well, owns a matchbox apartment in Mumbai and has at least one child and is in the process of producing another. Gawd, I hate that word.

The family owned 12 acres of land, and a small house near Bhandardhara. The son had built a temple and another guestroom close by, which the family rents out only to “families” – which implies, no booze, no smoking and no sex. The money comes out of rice agriculture, she said.

At this point she introduced a third item into the menu -- ‘pulao’ made in 15 minutes. It was delicious.

She packed it and along with her husband, escorted us to the Quallis and waved us goodbye, just like she would wave her grandchildren off after a quick visit.

They were such a sweet couple, obviously in love with each other and with their life in the countryside. And in love with the world too.

I have an uncanny feeling I’m gonna grow old and be just like her. :-)

Pappu can't act either

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 15:55:38 GMT

What's wrong with the world? It actually likes Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Naa. Silly movie with a silly script, sorry, no script whatsoever and mediocre actors (though I think Imran may improve in the coming years). Even the music sucked (well, Pappu can't dance saala was bearable).
I'm not the kind who goes in search of meaningful cinema, but I do like to see some sense in films. Maybe I'm just too old to enjoy movies meant for teeny-boppers who are the ones deciding the fate of several things in the country, Bollywood included.
What a waste of Rs 160, popcorn-pepsi ka paisa not included! I want my money back.

PS: I forgot the surprise packet -- Prateek Babbar. He's all of 21. Very very cute in a dazed lost-in-his dreams hippie-art student type of way. Loved him. And the guy can act!

Kalsubai

Wed, 02 Jul 2008 16:25:22 GMT

The idea was to take photographs. Tonnes of them. Truckloads of them. But as these believers say, the best laid plans of men and mice come to naught before the will of God. In this case it was a goddess. Goddess Kalsubai.

While Nago, who had trekked Kalsubai a couple of hundred times, came expressly to take pictures of the stunning view from the top, I simply wanted bragging rights to having climbed the highest peak in the Sahyadris before I turned my attention to the mighty Himalayas.

Mt Kalsubai is at a height of 1,646 metres and just to give you an idea of how over-ambitious I am, Mt Everest is 8,848 metres high.

We left early in the morning – ‘twas the usual crowd, Tom, Nago, Namdev, me and Jaadu and our driver Deepak, who came with us to Bhimashankar, and had a rough idea of how crazy we were.

Bari, a small hamlet, some kilometers away from Igatpuri, is where the trek begins. The weather had been fine till then. But perhaps Dame Kalsubai thought we were a bit too comfortable. That explains why she sent rain our way. Torrential rain, which fell on us like needles and pins.

And so, hugging my windcheater close to my body, ensuring that the camera was safely ensconced in its cover, which was ensconced in a plastic bag, which was ensconced in a bigger plastic bag, which was in my travelpack, underneath the windcheater, I started trekking.

It was roughly about 1pm. Way too late to begin a trek. But we were too excited to look at the time. We crossed a village, with little mud huts, a little stream, with village women washing clothes in the water, a Hanuman temple and several mango trees.

The thing about the Kalsubai trek is that you cannot get lost. The mud huts lead you to the stream. You cross the steam to reach the Hanuman temple and from there you figure out a way to reach the ladders.

The Maharashtra government or the Kalsubai villagers or some good Samaritans (God bless their souls) have made about six iron ladders, and put them at vital places. They are painted a bright yellow, so visually-impaired and dimensionally-challenged trekkers like me cannot miss them. I was overjoyed and I turned around to look at three faces which showed utter dismay and disgust. “There used to be just three rusty rickety old ladders earlier, which swayed with the wind… so much more fun,” said the three seasoned trekkers. I have no idea how I come back alive from these treks. It’s a miracle, I say!

About three hours of climbing and fighting our way through the incessant rain later, we reached the top. At least that’s what I thought. But Nago pointed out that the top was “just 15 minutes away”. When Nago says “15 minutes away,” it usually means two hours away.

The fog coming in and out gave us a few glimpses, but as we climbed higher and higher, the views became fantastic. We were itching to take out our cameras but managed to somehow stifle the urge.

The last rickety and exceedingly steep ladder led us to a piece of flat land. Mt Kalsubai conquered. Delighted I looked around. And saw nothing. There was nothing to see. The fog had cut us off completely. And the wind wanted to sweep us off our feet. We had to hold on to each other for our lives. I actually felt myself flying a bit, and let me tell you that’s no mean feat for a heavyweight champ like yours truly.

There’s a small temple at the top, dedicated to Kalsubai of course. The temple is very tiny and dingy, and was teeming with small white crabs and green snails. Ewwww. In fact, the whole route was teeming with crabs. I had to wait for crabs to scurry off, when I wanted to hold on to a tree, a rock or even step on the ground.

The seasoned trekkers had no such qualms. “Chalo chalo jaldi,” said Nago, looking bored, trampling a crab with his left foot. Jaadu meanwhile busied himself with trying to catch the creepy little suckers in our water bottle, long emptied of its precious contents. “Am doing timepass,” he said catching a crab, putting it in the bottle and shaking it for effect.

Meanwhile, inside the temple, a pious Namdev, wanted to pray properly. And so he knelt down, squishing the life out of a snail with one knee and a crab with the other. And then killed two more baby crabs with his hands as he bent his forehead to the ground.

I have never seen a bigger massacre of crabs. There were snails on the outer walls of the temple. It must have taken them several days to climb up the wall. I saw ten snails die a fast painless death as Namdev leaned against the wall. Poor suckers. They didn’t know what hit them. They'll probably call it "Terror Saturday'

And when I pointed their dead bodies to Namdev, brushing his wet shirt, he said he hadn’t noticed them.

On our way back, we stopped by a small stream. We then remembered we had taken pulao – the first time in the history of our trekking -- and attacked it with gusto. Like Somalian refugees who get air-dropped rations. More crabs and snails and a solitary snake for a change, made an appearance and slowly slithered away.

And two or three hours later … one loses track of time while trekking, we were back at the Hanuman temple. The rain had made the route so slippery, that I slid at least half-way down the mountain slope. Nago said the technical term for that is 'butt-trekking'. That probably explains how we made it back in the nick of time, just was it became dark, at around 7.30. The stream, which had been a thin trickle earlier, had turned into a ferocious river. And we somehow managed to cross it, holding hands for dear life.

Pimp my search

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 15:00:05 GMT

A wise old man used to often say to yours truly: Little things please little minds
Guess he was right.
This ...
http://www.pimpmysearch.com/home.html?gname=Deepa%20
is what pleased me today :-)

Bhimashankar

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 17:42:31 GMT

I’ll say this about Bhimashankar. It is the most non-tiring trek I’ve done ever. And that’s because, we didn’t trek. We cheated and took a Quallis all the way to the top. ;-) Five steps and we found ourselves in the Bhimashankar temple, staring at the resplendent and shiny silver Jyotirlinga. I’m told the queues to catch a glimpse of the linga on auspicious days are never-ending.

We left Mumbai at midnight, chatted, sang, mimicked and slept intermittently through the journey. But there was a catch, one person was allowed to do one of the above at one time. So while I slept, Nago and Namdev kept up a regular banter. And when they were just beginning to doze off, it was my turn to sing a Himes Reshammiya song to wake them up. Vasant and Tom were non-existent for the most part. The former speaks only in monosyllables, that too only when it's a question of life and death. And the latter had not slept the previous two nights -- he would have managed to sleep even if a supersonic jet was taking off right next to his eardrums.

So with just one minor mishap – we took a wrong turn and drove with determination for almost 20 kms towards a deadend – we reached Bhimashankar at around 7 am. It was a cold and misty morning. Having arrived from hot n humid Mumbai, we were so excited by the mist that we kept trying to blow smoke rings out of the mist.

Once we had warmed ourselves with some sweet chai, we set off for the temple.

Nago and Namdev who had visited Bhimashankar a couple of dozen times said that the temple had lost its glory. It used to be an imposing black stone structure.

But that, they said, had been demolished or had crumbled down. So in its place, there was a new cement structure which was in the process of being constructed, with bamboo scaffolding all around it – quite a sad spectacle.

It is disconcerting that these days, whenever I go on a trek, instead of being rewarded with glorious sights, I am confronted by man-made disasters. What will the future generation see? My guess is, it will be too obese to go on treks, and so the sights won’t matter. :-(

The temple has a swayambu jyotirlinga, which sprang up on its own, said Guide No 1, Nago. It’s one one of the 12 jyotirlingas in India, the internet tells me. And the guys discussed how an asura named Bhima, who worshipped Lord Brahma had become so powerful that he started terrorizing the earth and the heavens. The gods appealed to Lord Shiva, who as is his wont, lazily opened his third eye, and like the third umpire in a cricket match, put an end to the war, reducing the demon to ashes. Hence the name Bhima-shankar. There is also a Bhima river nearby, which I did not see, since we did not really trek.

Having been enlightened thus, we proceeded to Naagphani point, named so, because it looks like the hood of a snake. Yes, I made Nago pose funnily at Naagphani point, to do complete justice to the place.

The view was breath-takingly beautiful – we saw Siddhagad, Gorakhgad, Padhar-gad, and I am sure I’m forgetting several other gads we saw. The weather too co-operated, since it was cloudy, not sunny. And so we walked, encountering the odd-snake and a particularly monkey, who was so determined to not let us pass that we had to wait for 15 minutes for it to relent. We tried a combination of passwords from Khul-ja sim sim to abracadabra in vain.

Eventually the monkey lost interest and stepped aside, while we did a small victory dance.

N&N also wanted to see the Guptalinga which was hidden away in some secret place. No one knew where it was and so we never found it. But we walked for, what seemed to me like, several kilometers from Naagphani point, oohing and aahing at several beautiful views, posing for photos precariously close to the edges.

And then it was back to amchi Mumbai in about six hours taking the Malshej Ghat route. And now there are only those photos to remind us of the glorious day spent at Bhimashankar.

The first shower

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 16:14:02 GMT

The sweet scent of the earth after the first shower. Wish it could be bottled and sold as perfume.

Words I love... for now
water, rain, wet, shower, drizzle, downpour, lightening, thunder, clouds, splash, soak, squish, gum boots, raincoats, umbrella, peacocks, earthworms, mud, greenery, mountains...