Wedding & Waters

“Tonty gilometers extra sir” he said. The concept of giving extra-something, never settled well with me in all these years. On other occasions I’d have given it the same treatment a playing captain would have given the ‘extra’ in a game of cricket. But this was a nice bloke. We paid up. Gauri and I had alit from the cab only then. Back from a wonderful trip that saw us being setback in the backwaters by a thousand bucks each.

Minutes before, with frantic waving, I had our driver stop at the atm. He misread my hand movements for a right-turn indication and tried barging into oncoming / onto incoming traffic. Traffic we had been running against and dodging through for the last 150 kms or 3 hours. Slow was the vehicle, led partly by the fact that the driver was sleepier than us. The marriage meal had done wonders to his insomnia. The other reason was the stifling heat on the outside which ensured a warm suffocating breeze got into the car and lulled its passengers, and driver, into an uncomfortable sleep.

The stop at Alleppey town on the way back from Ochira had not helped. Bargaining is an art independent of language or dialect and at Alleppey-on-the-highway we were working on a negotiation for coir mattresses. I had a feeling we won the deal, until the point I saw, in the rear view of my mirror, the owner doing a small stretch of Kathakali on the road. He had my money wad in his hand. If not for Alleppey-on-the-highway, we would have had to take a detour to buy those products. Gauri was adamant on buying them. “Coir products and coconut water” she twisted face. “Convoluted world and face” and I straightened it. She manages the project.
The ritual itself was simple. I’m not sure if KC, a Mumbaikar with Kolkatan roots was aware of the sequence of the ceremony. I vaguely remember bidding him goodbye under the arc lights focused on him while he lunched with the extended in-laws’ family. Between banana payasam and semiya payasam, he had that look, which said he wasn’t sure which part of the ceremony indicated the marriage was solemnized. Tricky business dealing with another culture, let alone marrying someone from it.


Shot from the host's home

Our camera battery worked along with Murphy and right after the first long distance shot of KC in full-attire, it died on us. He made a pretty picture with his wife. A picture matched only by that of the banks of Nedeseri village, across the Pamba river’s backwaters.


A picture of the village

Rowing through those waters, one only wondered if the people on the banks would look up everyday at the river and the backwaters and appreciate its beauty the way Gauri and I did. Serendipity had brought us there. The journey from our hotel to Ochira, where the wedding was, was peppered with conversations. He spoke of every town enroute and of local legends and fanfare. At Chenganeserry before Alleppey, he spoke of his distant uncle (or was it his friend) who lived by the banks. My Malayalam version of ‘maybe not this time’ with the usual waving of the hands, was interpreted as “Uncle, Uncle, please take me to backwaters no!” There he was, the uncle of our driver, waving at us in a way distinctly different from mine. Car parked a few hundred meters away, the last leg to reach Uncle’s house-on-the-banks was by ferry. What a feeling!


The kind uncle who hosted breakfast for us (at a cost)


Boating up to someone’s home is not something I indulge in always. People in Bangalore take offence to such ideas and the roads are not conducive for boating (and riding if I may slip-in). He served us a Kerala breakfast – healthy mix of puttu (rice flour and coconut puddings?), kadala paya (spicy curry made of some cereal I can’t recognize) and milky tea. I had a couple of breakfasts and noticed Gauri slip in 3 puttu-cakes into her travel bag, and that, after having 2 breakfasts herself. We felt like Hobbits packing lembas. And the backwaters, 10 feet of courtyard separating them from our breakfast table, was going to be the river to ride. Uncle’s friend brought home his little boat.


Picking water off the backwaters

At about 20 feet in length and 1.5feet wide it gave us a mild assurance that survival was possible. Once off the banks the “we” changed to “I”. Between the boatman and the two of us passengers, only I could not swim. I could, however, drown with the grace of a heavy stone. The hierarchy of boats, was defined by and defined the status of the families. I wish they realized it still is the same waters they used. Like we land-dwellers use the same roads, pedestrian or Merc-owner.


Gauri on the boat


From being in two minds about going to the wedding alone, to the surprise Gauri sprang on KC by inviting herself to his wedding, was a great change. And I’m glad that, that morning of the wedding, we took the very old Ambassador for our taxi, instead of the bus. The weekend that was… and may never again be. A happy married life to you KC, and thank you for falling in love with a girl from Kerala.

Nanni-goat

Continuing on my series of interesting people on the project site in Valapad, Kerala. 'Interesting' here may not have the same connotation as Steve Irwin or Mata Hari. But I'm the type to draw a silver line on the window while watching war-clouds outside without any linings (silver or otherwise) of their own.

Staying away from home has never been nicer. And large swathes of those niceties, on this current Kerala trip are thanks to Nanni (prounounced nun-ee). A unique list of all words spoken between her and our team is ‘nanni’, hence the name. It took some trial and a lot of error, to conclude that it was the Malayalam word for ‘Thank you’. Being in a completely new place, I was pretty much thankful for anything given... anything that fell in the list of eats or drinks. And Nanni was the torchbearer of them all. Sugary coffee for the lady and self in the morning hours at office, with its assortment of biscuits, to the collection of cashew nuts and syrupy tea in the second half, Nanni ensures our quota of calories is handled right. We face greater challenges in receiving our quota of data from the client. The replenishment model she has worked out for our eating binges, would rival any manufacturing firm’s. Any better and we might make her an offer to join the team.

It took us some effort to arrive at ‘nanni’ as the appropriate word. A quick reference on social networks for a translation, had me misreading the word as ‘ninne’. For the first few days, my thanking her with what I assumed was the right word, drew stares – uncertain ones initially, awkward ones the second week and towards the end of the ninne’s career as part of my lexicography, angry ones. Those 3 weeks had a phased approach of its own. Serendipity brought home the real meaning of the word – ‘ninne’ meant ‘you’. If I were a heart-warming coffee-cashew bearing person and am greeted with “you!!” twice a day for a job well done, I would have not been happy either. Nanni was no different. It took only one word from the client project manager to her, to take proper care of us, to get her up to speed. The final report shall have her being acknowledged too. Just below the client project manager but well above the chairman.

With a nanni in every project, I would take up any outstation project with little thought. Now, if only my manager would stop accusing me of having other intentions regarding the elderly nanni.

Moonupeedika Times: News aano 2

Ha! Gotcha on a technicality! Two days, 2 blogs. Minutes either side of 12 00 midnight. So here's the next one already.

SCHUMESH
Rakhi Sawant may not be a veteran in the industry. But think of the time when she had made a grand entry into Bollywood and its peripheries. It was a pop number's video she featured in, playing the role of Slutty Secretary - oval glasses, pencil in mouth, less than half meter cloth. Remember? Remember the curves? Take a couple of seconds.. I'll wait in this corner! Yes, that's precisely how curvy the roads of Kerala are. National, State, District, Taluk or Village Highways - they all have about 20 curves to a kilometre. Part of the Highways Policy they said. And when the roads are that narrow and that windy, rationale indicates that one does not drive a car at more than 80 kmph. That's what you and me would think. Sumesh is not you and the last time I checked, certainly not me.

Sumesh is one of the resident chauffeurs of the dedicated fleet of cars that the client owns / runs / recovers_from_mortgage. He's also one of 'em big town boys - "I've worked in Bombay for a few months" he told us one of those days. And along with the Eastern and Western Expressway memories, he's brought to the tiny hamlet of Valapad, his driving skills. It took us (me and the gentle project manager) a hearty 2 weeks to figure out what lies on either side of the road - the one that leads us from our hotel at Moonapeedikam (translation - '3 shops') to Valapad (translation - 'you are screwed for the next 2 months, so try these banana chips'). On my side of the car, with intent gaze, I observed on the first few days a distinct haze of land in green and brown shoot past me. I checked with the lady who sat to my right in the car; the verdict was clear, she saw the same distinct haze of land in green and brown on her side as well. Such was the speed that he drove at.

Schumesh has earned a great amount of respect in the neighborhood. We've seen random strangers driving much more powerful vehicles (including those that come with some strange "Police" signs) respect him and wave back with a smile on the face. 2 weeks of being chaffeured around later, the eyes started to adjust themselves to the window view. Those blurs, when seen with steely gaze, started to materialze into only slightly more concrete faces. Concrete with fear. And with all those metaphors I begun feeling like a civil engineer. Schumesh has single-handedly responsible for converting all other vehicles into off-roaders. They need to get off the road to survive his speed. But for those few moments (and many kilometers), we simply hold our hands together (I hold mine, and the lady holds hers.. efforts to any other effect have been thwarted, I report) and pray that we make it safe just one more time.

Moonupeedika Times: News aano 1

3 weeks down and here's a profile of those we interact with on a regular basis. One a day, all of them shall soon be covered. The first one right away..

I AM THE WALRUS
The first impression one has after an interaction with Walrus, is the impression it leaves on the chair. A rounded body, with a smaller, rounder head atop it. The missing 'link'in the image is the one between the body and the head - the neck. The eyes are well guarded by stocky eyebrows and are placed deep in the socket. At those depths, it is difficult for the listener or viewer to discern the direction in which they see and the object they seek. The Walrus has his favourites amongst the project team - and the writer is surely not in the top 2. That, inspite of the team size being only 2!! Its favourite is the manager who comes in every morning, hiding behind me to prevent being spotted and to avoid all conversations. Little luck.. fat chance! The Walrus is greeted with a a hearty "good morning" by me, but it never acknowledges my presence. The regards are conveyed directly to the lady behind me who also is my manager. Occassionally, it wishes her right through me. I do not exist for the Walrus.

As proof, is given below an anecdote. Anecdote -
The lady and self are provided with transport by the office to ferry us to the restaurant and back during lunch hours. Day 12 of the project found the hospitality lacking. The roads, however, were not lacking in autorickshaws. Three waves of the arm later, came an auto towards us. And with it, brings to us the Walrus. It was lurking at the car nearby. Of concern to it was our travelling by auto instead of the office car. All my suggestions that it is fine to travel by auto for such short distances, were dismissed (along with me) by the Walrus. The lady received all attention and was told in a voice stentorian, that she shall always travel by the office car (even if it meant I walk on my knees to the restaurant) or else he will have to act "strictly" with her. She was sent off with a smile while I was dismissed by a show of the Walrus back.

Moonupeedika Times, Page 3

Dinner is a simple affair for us folks on the project site. “Site” here is a euphemistic reference to Moonupeedika, where we are hosted by the client. To the left of the town is a large swathe of nothingness. On the right is an exciting quantum of nothingness. Sandwiched between all this nothingness is our oasis. Moonupeedika, as we were told by an overtly helpful local, translates to “3 shops”. We aren’t sure how old the town is, but there still are only 3 shops in the town. If forethought was of any consequence, the town founders would have named it Noorupeedika perhaps – 100 shops.

We returned to our oasis, proudly called “Chand ‘V’ Regency” at the regulation time of 8 pm. The single quote surrounding the ‘V’ in the hotel’s name is of much intrigue to me. Were they punning on ‘V’? Does it have a deeper meaning that we folks missed out? On the atrium (20 ft X 20 ft) wall is plastered a rather larger-than-life photo of a gentlemanly looking male form of the human species. I presume the hotel’s legacy and balance sheet stems out of him. My suggestion, as is the want of any consultant’s to offer freely, to place the photo in the attic behind shoe boxes and see a 30% increase in revenue was not taken well by the hotel management. My laundry comes back dirtier than the form it is given in, thanks to the free advice.

Today has been a different evening at the hotel, from the usual sleepiness it carries about itself. The hotel is hosting a birthday party! A birthday party of some sorts I would say. I never would imagine that Moonupeedika could rock ‘n’ roll, and how! The sound spreads across the entire atrium and all other confines of the hotel. The occupant of the frame on the wall seems to smugly enjoy the show. Walking along the corridors, the vibrations in the feet told us clearly that the people partying meant business. Asking the colleague / project manager / friend, to come down for dinner had me saying “l.. llll ee ttt’s ggggo pphor dinner”. Vibrations, I tell you!

The dinner hall has its usual customers. None. The staff of 6 that does the cooking and waiting on the customers go about business as usual. The true effect of the party can be felt here. Its just a few inches of concrete and a false ceiling the size of Mt. Kilimanjaro that separates us from the party people. Songs, an eclectic mix, are being belted out of some very loud speakers. Eclectic because they started off with a Michael Jackson number and shifted gears to a few Malayalam numbers. Before we knew, the partying troupe launched an attack on the latest Hindi numbers – Farhan Akhtar’s Don and Kajol’s comeback vehicle (one tyre short) Fanaa. Then came the surprise – Hotel California. The vibrations in the walls came down by one seismic level and we could hear meaningful sing-alongs drowning the music player. My colleague, one who believes only sea food is real food, found her focus on the fish atleast. All other food items are for the fish to consume and become sea food to her, she believes. I don’t argue much. My project-end appraisal will be carried out by her.

Retro was brought back from the past with a press of a button (or a turn of the table; just couldn’t say). As we walked back to our respective rooms, to the tune of Khaike Paan Banaras wala, there was a flash in the corridor. A photographer. It wasn’t him who flashed but the camera – thankfully! Tomorrow, I shall wake up earlier than usual and run down to fetch the morning Moonupeedika Times. My first page 3 photo, anywhere!

Two weeks down..

.. and going strong!
I was glad I could get the Diwali weekend at Bangalore. After many a year did I manage to burst a few crackers. Feels just as good stinking up the environment now, as it did then. What's missing is the massive enthusiasm that would build up to a crescendo in the days leading up to the festival. No such enthusiasm. The current approach is a lot more wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am.
A couple of the so called rockets literally back-fired and got into the building we live in. The neighbourhood gave me a couple of dirty glances. I guess they haven't heard of how I can throw "atom bombs" after lighting the wick. They've not heard also, of failing air/space borne missions like Chandraayan.

Returning to Kerala was a little more difficult this time. 2 weeks ago I packed up with gay (i.e. happy) abandon and set off to the airport. This time it was the train station. Meeting up with Sandy, Rolly and Nidhi, Prashanth and Manasi and staying out with them upto 45 mins before the train left was not such a smart idea. Well, it did eventually work out that I made it to the station well within time and caught the train. And here's a photo taken with my cutting-edge technology, hi-def cellphone camera. If you can't see the faces clearly, blame the absence of light in the room and talent in the steward who shot the photo.


:)

Kerala continues to take my breath away. Not much of a sleeper in moving things that I am, I pretty much stayed up all night. Once dawn set in with gusto, the land lit up. Every nook and cranny of Kerala looks fabulous. The train doesn't take you through every nook and cranny though. Loved the architecture of the homes that dot the tracks (some are hardly 4 feet away from the tracks). And nearly all homes seem to have a massive courtyard / garden with a few dozen coconut trees planted in.

Decided, also, to test the local transport system. Inspite of cajoling, attempted convincing and some coercion, I refused to take the auto / cab beyond the bus stand. The bus ride was slightly disappointing since the driver didn't perform any histrionics that my friends mentioned - driving onto pedestrians, over roof-tops, overtaking anything that moves. None of it! A communication problem led me being thrown off the bus about 5kms prior to destination and I had to do the rest by auto. Not bad a trip.

Not really looking forward to this week in office (in Kerala.. definitely) 'coz apparently there's plenty work lined up. I didn't sign up for that.

Jew Town Rap

From Monday afternoon to Friday morning – time shot by before I could say “manaslayo”. Why would I say “manaslayo”? If you knew the first m of Malayalam, you would understand. We stepped in late into the state and decided to step out early, before the weekend said its customary Hullo. The flight to Hyderabad was well into the afternoon and having all the morning to reach Cochin, we made the most out of it. A couple of wayward stops, once to puttu and once to tea, pretty much pushed our limit to the runway.
We had another 2.5 hours to my flight. The IBM office was in the heart of the city, on the way to Jew Town, conveniently placed for us to check-in our luggage and check-out ourselves. Traffic for a small town like Cochin is still on the high side. Its not like the town has a very high population of vehicles; there must be some Reason lurking around that I couldn’t reason with.
30 minutes or lesser and we were at Jew Town. The “town” as its referred to really is but a few lanes strung together by a spattering of authentic Jews and Jewish shops, a synagogue and plenty of antique shops that sell antiques related to Hindu kings from Kerala and TN largely. Wee bit of a disappointment. When I’m in Jew Town I really would appreciate the Jew Town rap vis-à-vis thappanguchi.

Ignore Tappanguchi and other related dance forms. Here's the god of dance in Jew town.

Its called a Verpu. If any of you know it, please do educate me about the purpose. Very intersting engravings on the outside of it. This, btw, is the largest in the world.

Nothing to do with Jew Town. This photo felt like it could use some publicity !

Minor adjustments… we moved on. Plenty of good photographic opportunities, simply due to the Diaspora of colours that congregate at each place. Loading some of them here. We knew pretty much that the prices would all be inflated and a hard bargain is really called for. Reminded me of “The Merchant of Venice” and the biscuit Bassanio got. We did better than him against his clan-mates – no purchases made! ;)

Torah pyaar Torah magic... said our king to the visitors. :)

The synagogue has a modest architecture compared to even present-day churches or temples – instructions on the board outside suggest that you stay away from the place if you are dressed indecently. About 90% of urban youth won’t be permitted in methinks. The synagogue’s closed on Fridays they wrote, and we read. With time running short, there wasn’t much justice done to the place, which otherwise can take in the better part of a day for one with the eye for antiques – as opposed to an antique eye. Some quick driving and deft flicking of pedestrians into the narrow gutters hinging the road, by our driver, meant that atleast 2 of us were reaching office in time, and cleanly, if I may add. I risked missing the flight by a comfortable 8 odd to 7 even minutes. Not to be. Murphy was on a break and we made it on time. Apparently Murphy was else where, in the flight that I was waiting for. It eventually took off 2 hours late.

A portal to the past.

Looking forward to writing an introductory piece on the people @ on the client side. Nice blokes all, but come with their idiosyncrasies and I hopefully, will not be tarnishing their reputation too much.

Kerala Kronicles

“Let’s go check out the Beach” . Minutes before the end of day, which largely is in the 530 pm to 630 pm zone in Valappad Standard Time, that was the mantra on our lips. The beach isn’t the easiest of accessible places in upcountry Valappad, further-up-country Thrissur, really-up-the-creek-country Cochin. The autodriver – as luck favoured us tourist-kinds we found one – was willing to take us there. Once off the main road and heading into long stretches of winding narrow residential lanes, we wondered if security had been compromised. Having the driver tell us it’s a safe place and nothing happens here, only added to our stance of being compromised. 3 kms was the distance estimated by the hotel manager - from the hotel to the beach. Clearly, he didn’t realize that we don’t fly as the crow does. Come to think of it, we don’t fly at all. The distance was an easy 7 kms. When the beach stared into our face from between isolated homes and coconut trees huddled up, we still took a few seconds, before the sounds, rather than the visuals in the dark, indicated the presence of … The Arabian Sea… at our feet! What a feeling!

Sea’ing it from the beaches of Goa and Karwar is one thing, call it A. But b’ing at c, from on a beach that’s not visited at all by tourist or tout, gives a different name to the game. Call it B. B is the more rustic country cousin of A, but when it comes to soul, A can go suck on a mollusc. I would say, let it B.

Things couldn’t have improved any more for us on this trip. The path, as mentioned before, winds through heart-warming narrow-lanes, and at a spot where 3 of them met with and met-up with devotion, was this most amazing temple. Barring one neon light in blue, indicating the name of the temple, the rest of it was lit-up using only oil lamps. An atheist would have remarked “my god…” after a brief thought. A believer would have remarked “my god…” but without the atheist’s thought. The idol was difficult to discern through all that fire-lit brilliance and I’m sure one look at the deity would have thrown so much Awesome at us that we’d have renounced all our worldly possessions (colleague’s SLR). A quick enquiry in chaste Tamil led to an elaborate answer in Malayalam. Summary – it’s the 2nd oldest temple in Kerala; its certainly more than 1000 years old; it closes at 730 pm VST and opens at 530 pm VST; jaggery pongal is standard offering to the residing deity, Vishnu. With a massive banana-leaf helping of this prasad, we were overwhelmed with carmic and calorific thoughts. The latter stayed longer. Looking forward to a few more discoveries like this around.

Tomorrow, we’re taking the first of our fly-backs. I’m off to Hyderabad for a wedding – a friend Priyatham’s. He has promised us a good time with his other endearing friends – John, Bud, Fisher and others. With my flight only at late noon, we are going down to Jew Town in Cochin. More from there. I hope they’ve found themselves. Its been more than 40 years now.

Thrissur in Thirty Days

My profile on the professional front would not be very different from the rest of them in the "IT Generation". Studied in a good engineering college, scored average marks, made it to one of the Indian IT firms, so on and on cliched continuation... so forth. What sets me apart is the geographic footprint that I've worked out.. or to be more specific... haven't worked out. I have never been outside the country, be it the non-visa countries of Nepal, Bhutan et al or the more exotic ones like the Iceland like some of my friends have.
Introductions apart, I pride myself 'coz I have seen a large swathe of our own country, and am sure that there isn't much that the world has to offer than the diversity that we have back home. Dialects changing every 400 km - tough to beat! Nearer home and yet the elusive one in my list was Kerala. And now, thanks to Manappuram Finance, I now have a chance to be in Kerala.
I thought its not such a bad idea to talk about a first-timer's view of God's own country.
For starter's, the sobriquet is inappropriate. Flying into Cochin's airport with a sharp turn, in an aircraft that doesn't give one much confidence (its about the size of a minivan and let's out exhaust like one too), if I were God (pretty close... I'm a consultant), I would remark "That's my own 18 hole Greg Norman designed golf course!". The view is fantastic - trees everywhere... and green the color of the state. Too bad the reds have their strongholds there I thought, after realizing I'm not God.
So the place I'm working at is called Valappad. Thrissur was the name initially suggested and in a quick during-the-flight trick from the project manager, the location was moved about 25 kms (rougly 35 mins of death-defying driving by maniac lungi-toting drivers) from there. Interesting none the less, with a client who promises to not be to aggressive (you meet the ded-loins, no mayter au you do it) and a project manager who promises to be more entertaining with conversations than pressuring. A long walk in the evening to discover the local fanfare led to this - Naaz Bakery, Byju Wine Stores, Another_Naaz Bakery, Another_Byju Wine Stores.... it goes on! There's just one road throughout the town and life pretty much settles around it. What also surprised us (me and project manager referred to earlier) was the continuity in the small towns. There's no no-man's land in between two towns. Seamless Integration at its best.
We finished off with some very pleasant dinner, sea food being the priority on the table thanks to the squid loving manager. Desserts was picked up at one of Naaz' Bakeries - coconut oil based Bombay Halwa. Seamless Integration to National Integrity was an easy jump.
Looking forward to exploring a bit of Kerala for myself, probably ride down the next time I'm on a flyback on the Bullet.

Write here, Write now!

Its been so long since I've posted anything on this site, that I tend to forget it exists. I used to be passionate about writing on this blog and have now moved this passion into a longer format of writing. Got a long way before any product comes out of the new format, considering it takes so much of my effort - time and emotional.

I've realized now that its vastly different to write a couple of pieces about a particular topic and get done with it, vis-a-vis writing on a single topic with multiple characters, spreading it over many pages and hours. But the effort continues to go in and I'm hoping that some day it'll see the light of the day. Atleast, I'll have the satisfaction of having made an effort. If Rome can't be built in a day, throw in a per diem and a few more weeks with sufficient skilled labour, and a decent architecture will be delivered. Good enough for old J.C. to appreciate or Nero to fiddle with, only time will tell. And so will JC.

I've managed with some effort also, to run a little more than 10 kilometers in one single session. I guess I've made a mention of that uncorroborated fact in as many forums as I can. And I still can't get enough. The reasons are two fold - for someone who is on the journey to very high fitness levels, it means a lot and defines a certain milestone on the ardous yet exhilirating journey. The joy of seeing the treadmill indicator turning 10.000 is unexplainable and can lead to one letting out a silent "hurray" from the oral cavity, hands thrust in air vertically and losing balance due to the act. The other reason why it excites me is to do with my confidence levels. Its not a commodity I carry around in excess, very specifically in certain areas like physical fitness. So seeing myself run 10 km (wall-to-wall mirror placed on the left) in an hour and 15 minutes, and knowing that some of my fitter friends have taken about the same time, does wonders to my confidence.

This is my second attempt at long-term fitness, the first being executed when I was in Hyderabad. I have written about the previous experience in earlier posts including sufficient detail about the characters I met there. My current fitness center, though not having as many patrons as the previous one, makes up in the portfolio of patrons. We have 200 pound aunties leaving massive sweat stains the shape of a double-O when they sit down on the stools we use for workout, 80 pound girls assuming that they are size 0 and a host of individuals whose daily fitness-roster form reads "want to make 6 pack" in the "objective" section. (For the record, my "objective" was to "lose 8 - 10 kgs".

Maybe some day, time permitting, I will write about all these characters and my interaction with them. Interaction needn't always be personal and in fitness centers I can vouch that its largely the interaction of sweat molecules.

I'm writing this blog at a whim with no plan in mind. Not that it would make a big difference to the outcome (confidence, was I saying?). By their very nature, blogs have to be either informative or entertaining. This one is neither. Its completely personal and at this instant, the blog is my sounding board on a public forum. Nothing beyond it.

On an off-note, news of MJ's passing away, I gather, has revived a big interest in his music (was it ever gone?). I'm wondering which other artist will be able to make an impact as big as this one, if he were to pass away (not that I want them to). Dylan, I'm guessing. But then again, I'm an ardent follower of his music and hence could be prejudiced. A song from his '63 album, "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" follows - Don't Think Twice, Its Alright.

Back to tripping on it...

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It never do, somehow
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never done before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

Lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
Goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

Sweet September

Vivo Montgomery was not a strong-hearted person. He was told by all and sundry that the race wasn’t going to be easy. The distance wasn’t a short one. Many had trained for days-on-end to stay fit for the competition. Raleigh Montgomery had gone to the extent of trying hypnosis to commit himself to victory. In the run upto the race, many could hear Raleigh M.’s room emitting midnight sounds of “I won, I won… sweet September!”

With the kind of prize in the offing, as declared over dinner by their master, Vivo knew that the competition would be stiff. His very life was ruled by this stiffness, just like that of his siblings. The times were tough. The economy was going through a depression, a depression that percolated to the people on the streets, the bedrooms of mansions, the stray mongrels in the lanes scraping the last of leftovers and the hawks that spread their wings over the fish market at the coast. They were starved for a victory for over a six-month period now. The problems were infinite, the causes for starvation, numerous. A bunch that was always united and at the command of the head of the home, the Montgomerys could get really competitive when it came to the individual. “To Each Himself” was the motto that had been passed on to them through the ages. And with the large brood of Montgomerys, a trait the family carried through generations, the motto was being pushed to its outer limits, stretched until it would change and metamorphose itself into a new breed of competitive instincts.

The race schedule had not been finalized. Some of the smaller, yet, nagging issues needed to be sorted out. An hour, maybe two… or maybe a day, were the rumors being spread around. Patience wearing thin and uncertain about how long they could sustain themselves with these rigors, the Montgomerys were a worried lot.

Two days later, with the lights dimming down and the ravens in the field heading back east, the time arrived. It was the first day of the New Year. Their master gave them the final nod in one reproachful look. He asked them to perform and perform well. Glory was to belong to he who won the race. They put on their racing shoes. Like true marathoners out on a run, they had all lined up behind each other with no set pattern. The first few yards wouldn’t matter, they knew. The fun and exhaustion would kick in only half way through. Only the toughest would last. With the sounding of the gun, they were off. Vivo stuck to his strategy. Let them go forward, he would retain his stamina for the last by which time he knew the rest would have fallen by the wayside… his siblings… unable to complete the tough drill.

Coming to the last of the turns, he could see that apart from him, there was to be some stiff competition from Raleigh. The hypnosis idea worked well. Raleigh almost ran in a trance Vivo thought. Only a man possessed could do something like that. There were others in the fray too. Vivo pulled on the last of his reserves as he saw the finish line. The prize would be his if he could hold on. This was the moment of glory his master had told him. He made a mad dash to the finish line. Meek as he was, Vivo knew he had it in him. Going head-to-head in the last few yards, Vivo found an unbelievable strength guiding him. The vapors emanating from the ground as they stomped it brought newer energy to every sinewy part he possessed. With a final thrust of the head, he completed the race… just ahead of the rest of the pack. The day was his. Only then could he see the grand prize… a cause for suspense and restlessness all these days, it stood there – perfectly oval, shiny and much larger than him. He plunged into his prize with joy, gratitude and tears. His master was right - Glory was his! The New Year had begun on a great note for him.

On the 28^th of August that year, the Montgomery couple was blessed with a son. The child in the master's arms seemed to be tinier and weaker than the other new-borns. They named him Vivian Montgomery in honor of the saint who shared the birth date and one other important reason the master could not recall. Whatever it was, the new-born seemed to respond well to the shortened version of the name – “Vivo”.

Who Laughs Last!

It happened around the time the Dal Makhani was brought in. The joke being told was not the kind that deserved intense laughter – atleast not the heart-and-maybe-a-foot-below intensity it held. Having been a passive observer of these traits for some time, I realized what that laughter was even before the Dal was completely served – and in clichéd wisdom remarked to myself – “Dal mein kuch kaala hai”.

Every career brings with it, its idiosyncrasies (every career is a carrier of its idiosyncrasies, anyone! :-) ). Mind it – I’m not talking of a person but a career. Here’s an example – A fireman’s favourite joke (notice reference to gender) will be about his hose being longer than his colleague’s… like that!

Here I write about an idiosyncrasy of a life-time member from the consultancy career – The Consultant’s Laugh! On many occasions our ilk faces situations where clients or fellow consultants need to be appreciated and humored. If you won’t take my word for it, try getting 3 years sales data split month-wise from a client. Pressurize him enough to give you the data and see if his CV won’t appear on Monster.com within a week. In such situations, a little appreciation and humoring is not seen as out of place. It’s termed ‘client-relationship’. There are other easier ways by which as a consultant, one can keep the client and others around in good spirits. Some of these methods involve a 2 year prison-stint and/or a 5000 buck fine. Hence, they will not be written about.

The Laugh is not something one is born with. Like the other great things about a person – leadership, courage, smelly arm-pits and flatulence – it’s an acquired trait. And one that is acquired with a lot of dedication. The Laugh is not made explicit or explained when one joins this line of work. Very much like the bonus-calculation mechanism. And one fine day, if you survive the “induction” where one particular department tests your ability to stay awake under the influence of chloroform, one hears it. Sometimes a hollow sound, like when you open the tap of an empty beer barrel, sometimes full and flowing, like when you open the tap of a loaded beer barrel and sometimes silent and inconspicuous like when you open the tap of no beer barrel. The Consultant’s Laugh!

One can trust the quality of the consultant’s work, based purely on the quality of The Laugh he generates. The more annoying and fake it gets the more certain of the recommendations being a ppt lifted from the company’s archives. Any signs of The Laugh being genuine and one can be sure there is some very good data analysis done before referring to company archives for recommendations.

With a year-and-a-half neatly tucked behind, time and other-wise, it was fairly recently that I realized The Laugh hiding in me. All original and I’ve also been practicing hard using the mirrors in the rest room (only now realizing why some of my colleagues are avoiding me lately). It ain’t too hard to discover the gift one has. Go on… give it some thinking over the weekend and flourish and aim for that career shift!

Bite the Bullet

The last two months have been trying! The project having gotten underway, it prevented me and my team from doing anything but that which consultants do - namely, ask for data, reject data given to us, sulk behind the client, clean the data over 70% of the period of the project, (filtering through xl does it well I've realized, though a colleague discovered an easier and more assured way using a P & G product; he refuses to divulge further information and needless to say, was assigned most of the cleaning), build wonderful models using xl sheets and give them names like "Return of the Mother - X-series - V1.1.xls".

In a desperate attempt to discover/invent silver-linings for ourselves in those bleak times, we ran up a very good bill at the local condiments store (being Mallu, he has a wonderful take on diversification and sells tea, tea estates in Darjeeling, low-cost labor for tea estates in Darjeeling, filter coffee, coffee filters and cycle chains). The silver-lining was quick to be seen, when he told us our daily bills. It appeared as a multi-Z shaped cloud right above the head when paying up and some wonderful reverse peristalsis on a jam bun.

That's not all the silver-lining I could bring up. On a personal front, I realized a long-held wish and a near-impossible hope. I bought the Thunderbird that I so much wanted. A-haa, not an old one, but a new one that depleted my savings account like a Las Vegas casino might when dealing with a bad hand at the cards. 'Near-impossible', I use the phrase due to the kind of pressure folks @ home put on me.

"Minimum mileage should be 65kmpl" said Dad.
"Should the vehicle run on water or is milk good enough?" came my reply.

"Its a very heavy bike!" said Mom.
" ". I didn't have to say anything. With arms outstretched I let her take in my complete picture and she quickly figured out where all the butter dosas she made went.

A week after the purchase I fuelled up. I filled myself up with 3 litres of trepidation at the first intimidating traffic junction and headed out to the nearest Ganesha temple. In these days of reckless riding, nothing like some help from upstairs I thought. Parked beside the temple and awaiting the coconut-breaking ceremony was a Pulsar (due regards to the Bajaj family and their pet peeves). The vehicles seemed to have a sense of competition between themselves and I could distinctly feel a rumble from my bike, which told me that it wanted the Pulsar for breakfast and if left over, a brunch! (minutes later I realized the sound was due to the fuel levels having reached reserve and me not acknowledging the fact).

With some clear hand-signs I interrupted the priest's hymns and made it clear that coconuts needn't be broken on bikes for blessings and the road was built for just that purpose. Having settled accounts with Priest Sir, God sir and a pantheon of other god-fathers and god-mothers, I set out to fuel the bike.

It was here that the first of the acknowledgements from society dropped by. Though the bike is very personal, nothing like a bit of Maslow's higher layers pitching in to make one feel good. Fellow-rider of a Bullet started his bike a short distance away. I glanced in that direction without giving it a thought. Bullet-man before taking off, raised his hand in my direction with a leather-gloved thums-up sign. A silent nod of his head later (a vertical nod, indicating respect and approval, not the horizontal one, which indicates non-approval and flies around the head) he went his way. Tough men don't smile I said to myself. I looked at the mirror of my bike and smirked hard instead. With a thumping kick to the start, I rode back home.

The Grapes Were Sour

Read the blog below about auto-drivers in Bangalore? If you’ve read it, thank you! If you haven’t, kindly do and then accept heartfelt thanks (ladies stand in front of queue). If you don’t want to read it – that’s alright too – now, that I’ve written it, neither do I. What I’ve written in the current piece draws a wee bit from what I’ve written below. A sequel if you may call it one – hence, the request to read the earlier blog.

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With the arrival of the end of my bus-travel days, I looked forward to getting a 2-wheeler. Small thing now, but back in those days, to a guy like me it was as important as a color photo of Silk Smitha. Fate, however, made a quick move on me and sent me off from the city, moving the bike out of the picture. The closest analogy for this kind of disappointment, involves waiting in the movie ticket queue for about 30 patient minutes. With 3 people left, they announce that the last 20 tickets will be sold outside in black by the guy wearing red, on a highest-bidder basis. Multiplexes don’t do that, but try a Tamil or Telugu movie release on a weekend.

For all those intermittent visits to the city, the mode of transport forced upon me, was the humble autorickshaw - ‘humble’ being a reference to my state after being fleeced.

Only recently did Lady Luck smile again and put me back where I do belong – Bangalore. And not in Aruba, as lone touch-up fellow for the Pirelli calendar models… that’s where I would like to belong. I knowwww… its only semantics! On knowing with certainty that I would be in Bangalore for atleast 3 months, my first need was to change the mode of transport. A car was more of a luxury and less utilitarian I felt, like wearing golden jocks! It had to wait its time. It was back to square one. Plans from the earlier years were taken out and the dust covering them blown away.

Deciding to buy a bike was as easy as provoking Andrew Symonds in India. The difficulty was in deciding which one should be bought – how should we provoke Symonds - and therein lies the essence of this current piece.

Its time now to introduce a friend of mine – friend, philosopher and misguide – Manoj Bhat. A senior from college, Manoj in most aspects represents a typical MBA. Which means, he believes he’s either over-worked or underpaid and on Monday mornings, both. There are however, other aspects in which he doesn’t subscribe to the norms. His choice of leisure activities, for starters! Manoj is an endurance runner and most of his leisure time is spent training for the full-marathon. He is the kind who will run 20 kms in a matter of 2 hours and call it a warm-up. I on the contrary, would use a more scientific term to it – evaporation.

Also different or atleast not common-place is what he rides – A Thunderbird from the Royal Enfield stable. One may want to argue that it isn’t the greatest choice of a bike for city roads. “Why, a Pulsar or even a Splendor is far better for acceleration!” you may say. After half-a-dozen whiskey shots later you may even pick the gall to add “A TVS 50 or a Luna is more value for money!” I wouldn’t disagree with the former or the latter – more so with the latter because in principle, I don’t argue with anyone who has that much of alcohol in the body. All said and done, big bikes have a great appeal about them.

Paape’s Jawa was my first interaction with a member of the big-bike club. This was in 1998 when Pulsars were still restricted to the Physics syllabus. He would politely let me handle it from the bike-stand inside the college to the first junction we came across and when he was of a generous disposition, even further. A grand 200 meters it was. I even got to wipe the dust of its covers everyday, I remember. In return, I would ward off any attempts by the junior girls to play the role of Pillion on his bike. A very good friend I make. Loyalty is the key here… that and a mean look when any girl tried to capture the pillion seat. I would fight away the need to get onto a bus as much as I could. And if it meant my close friend would have to remain single and unable to mingle for 4 years – only fair, I thought.

**************

In the run up to the final decision, I was faced with two front-running options - the Bullet always held an appeal, but as a practical choice, the Activa seemed to make sense. Unable to conclude, I checked with some friends.

“An Activa is perfect for city roads; solid pick-up…yes, picking up girls also…. Yes... petrol and charm are both needed”

“Bullet – mileage and maintenance – not so easy. No spare parts easily available!”

“You got just one life Suri, go for it! You’ve always liked big bikes… remember the Jawa?”

“You’ve never owned a bike earlier, the Bullet will be too much to handle.”

Arguments were shot back and forth, all with the intent of easing the selection process. I gave it deep thought for nearly 3 days and an equal number of nights… By the morning of the fourth day, it was all over.

The winner was clear. The Bullet it was! If I ever convinced myself that the Activa was a better choice than the Bullet, I would do so because the grapes were sour and not because I genuinely felt that way about the Activa.

***********

Having made the choice a quick check of the price list of the models at the nearby showroom was made. One lakh Rupees was the general figure. With my savings I could easily purchase the helmet and a mud-guard; with a kidney thrown in I guess the complete bike would be at buying length. Deciding to retain my body intact, I did the next best thing – approach Manoj and check if the biking club he rode with had any used-bikes up for sale.

A day passed by… then another! By the third day restlessness stepped into the picture and I cold-called Manoj. For all of my luck there was one, he said. A Thunderbird for 50K; the owner was abroad and wouldn’t return for a few years atleast. I could check the bike out anytime I wanted. This was it I knew. My bike was waiting for me somewhere. But I was unable to convince the owner for a 2 day warm-up period on the bike. Manoj stepped in again! He suggested a ride to Hoskote on his own Thunderbird, to figure out if I can handle it. At 11 in the morning on a Saturday we met up. I sat on a Royal Enfield, as a rider, for the first time and worked the gears. All smooth! The ride had begun. Power from the engine reached the wheels with precision. By the time we covered a few kilometers, I was convinced.

6 hours later I was back on my own. All that was there was to arrive at a fair price for the bike on sale and get to the haggling part with its owner. A short test ride to a mechanic and a phone call to the showroom later, the price was clear – 50K was on the higher side. The recommended price was 40K. “Five thousand rupees jaasthi for frensip” said the mechanic with a smile that was short of a few teeth. The mech gets his friends for dirt cheap I second guessed.

Within hours, the mail from me must have reached Manoj’s friend – the owner of the bike. 40K was what I was willing to give. It was only a matter of time before we arrived at some conclusion and with that feeling I relaxed. 2 days later the response wasn’t still there. The mail could have been wrongly recognized as spam; he may not have found time to read it – the possibilities were large.

Things couldn’t wait any further at my end. I called his folks in Mysore. It was 12 pm, on a Wednesday that was already loaded with work.

“Aunty, I checked with the mechanic. He said 50K was too high and 40K was a good price. Even the showroom person says the same. I’m fine upto 45K but nothing above that aunty… and yes, I’m also in a hurry to get done with this… before Dussehra goes by for sure… Oh! OK… that’s great to know… pretty good price too… What’s his name? That’s fine… Thanks a lot anyways aunty!”

***********

A few minutes later, some friends and I marched up to get lunch at the office canteen. I felt heavy and settled down for a fruit salad - an unholy mess of banana, shredded oranges and apple pieces, all mixed with honey and topped with a lot of grapes. “So when are you getting that Thunderbird” asked one of the colleagues. “Weren’t you supposed to know the final price yesterday itself”, he continued.

“Thunderbird? It’s not such a great bike” I remarked, while shoving some of the fruit mix into my mouth. “I’m buying the Honda Activa, its certainly the better one for me."

And as I chewed on the salad, I could feel the grapes.... the grapes.... were sour!

Autodrivers of Bangalore - Second half (or) The Journey Not-completed

For the first half of the journey, kindly refer to the blog below this one

What amuses me most is the versatility with which the average Bangalore autodriver has arrived at this juncture – from being a mere con-artist to one who can nudge bigwigs out of the Interpol’s red corner list; from being fluent only in one language – abusive, to being able to swear in 6 – he has come a long path. And if he throws one quick glance around and looks at the path… he’ll realize it’s the wrong side of a one-way road.

I will take you, my dear reader, on a ride with one of these autos. The ride itself may be uneventful, but there is plenty to cover before and after it. See if you can get some learning out of this and apply it in Bangalore or in your own city if there is a fit.

The pain in the backseat starts seconds before you get into the auto. A potential traveler, with hope in eye and good coffee and sweet wife waiting at home, approaching an auto driver will get the following treatment –

Let’s assume the pedestrian can speak Bangalore’s version of Kannada

Passenger: “Bartheera!” (Translation – “Comingaaa!”)
Auto Driver: “Yellige!” (Translation – “Where to?”)
Passenger: “Koramangala” (Translation – “Koramangala”)
Auto Driver: “Tch!” (Translation – “Tch!”)

Other travelers, heading out in any of the other three directions, will meet the same fate. You conclude that that auto drivers have got into market research - using cluster analysis to figure out where citizens would like to travel most - and have quit their natural-born instincts of transporting people around.

Let’s assume that Shukra and Shani in the potential passenger’s zodiac for the week are in the right position. They aren’t upto any of their usual tricks and are rather co-operative. This translates to the potential passenger finding an autodriver who is willing to transport him to the chosen destination. Now, he needs to face the next level of the game – the “Put something on the meter and give no!” syndrome. Here’s how it works…

No driver in his normal senses is willing to go by the meter. There always is a need to ask the traveler to “put something on the meter” and pay them. Being a veteran at receiving such requests from those tough souls, I suggested to one of them, a banana for the putting. The humor not only failed to register but was greeted with the look of a lion being told it had to go on the Atkins’ diet.

Convince the autodriver that you need to be taken for a ride and he might agree, but only on the outside. Deep inside, he has worked out the figurative meaning of “being taken for ride” and will scheme and plot like he’s the white-sari protagonist in a Ramsay movie. At that most crucial V junction in the road ahead, while leading you to believe that the Indian team did win the T20 and that he is indeed going to take the right of the fork as you wanted, he will take a cruel left. Your yelling at him for taking the wrong route will bring out the Socrates in him, convincing you with skewed logic that this route is indeed the shorter one and that all roads lead to the same destination (hence the adage – “All roads lead to roam”).

Of late, I have in my experiments with autorickshaws (read not much between the lines… the experiments are straight and have the SPCA’s approval), figured out that the auto’s wires snap when there are pretty women on the road or when a juicy junction in a busy part of the city is looming large. “Wire cut”, he will proclaim with gusto and a smile, as though that was your most anticipated event for the year since your great aunt infected you with common cold in mid-summer mango season. He will then go onto charge the full amount as shown by the faulty meter, along with whatever you can put on it. Just when you are out of sight, the meter in a pang of guilt will fix itself up and be ready for the hot chick from the north-east who is showing her legs a.k.a Yana Gupta in babuji zara dheere chal. I did try emulating them on one such desperate occasion; the results if memory serves me right, weren’t the same – the post-legging scene also, if I remember, involved a cop, some more autorickshaw drivers and women screaming and running into the front of moving buses. One is always left with the after-thought that he should have given the autodriver a nice kick between his legs and scream “banana split” in Mandarin before running.

A special mention also needs to be made of my friend Varun Veernala. Notice two things about the name – there is bravery spelt out clearly in the surname and there is no hint that he is connected to the Nizam of Hyderabad. When you pluck VV from Pecos and put him in front of any of our friendly autodrivers, both the observations, mentioned at the start of the para will go kaput. The bravery in his name quickly gets replaced with wetness in trousers and all autodrivers will immediately believe he is related to royalty. For the shortest of rides (and on one occasion, just for touching the autorickshaw), the drivers, on looking at VV will say “120”, “100” or the thereabouts. The auto unions have all passed decrees – the actor Ambareesh is our idol and no one shall charge Varun Veernala less than 100 for any ride. Great unity these auto drivers have.

So there! All I had to say about the drivers of Bangalore’s three-wheeled monsters. I do realize that I may not have touched all aspects. For example, his kindness in running over only one school kid when there is potential for three; his penchant for blowing cigarette smoke when the Miss inside is asthmatic – just to name a couple. After all, it is difficult to mention in one piece of writing, all that an auto-driver can do to you, without outraging modesty or referring to your lineage. I also choose to not make it completely exhaustive, so that the reader may pitch in with his views. No word limits. One nice compilation later, I can visit the auto-drivers union at Rajajinagar, and make my presentation. Let’s see if they will charge me one-and-a-half on the meter on my return journey from there. I dare them! And if I don’t blog within another week, you’ll know where to find me… please bring enough money.

Autodrivers of Bangalore - First half of the Journey

The predicament began in early 2003. Having spent 2 decades in Bangalore and having graduated from here, the grass didn’t really look greener on the other side. Add to it, I had mooed away from many a bovine tendency and grass didn’t mean the same thing to me as it did to the fauna of Serengeti or the sadhus of Varanasi.

What I had looked forward to, after graduation, was a pleasant life centered around Bangalore, run for mayor by the time I’m 30, win by 35 and start making my quick-buck. By then I was sure “Greasing of the palms” would have received a small-scale industry status and being a fledgling industry, atleast legally, would be entitled to a tax break. A couple of wives to go with – belonging to the neighbors, frequent presence in the crime beat of the city and life would be set.

With such long-term plans for a stay in Bangalore made, I decided it was time to head to a better way of traveling within the city. For years it was my legs that served as the mode of transport. And when faced with stray mongrels, they doubled up as a mode of communication too. The rear of many a mongrel did meet my feet. But with the advent of the mid-school-life crisis (8^th standard as I refer to it), there was a strong need to match the classmates. Peer pressure came in easy-to-use packages even in those days and were available in all classes, near the canteen, at the playground and in the Monday morning assembly. Convenient! I had to get a cycle. Soon!

One fine day, well ahead of the Christmas holidays I did get my cycle. Folks at home had surprised me with a Hero Ranger – one of those rugged ATB (“Any Time Bxxxx” is what my friends told me) thingies that would ensure looks from St. Francis Xavier’s Girls High (7^th standards). From being foot-soldier I had progressed to the next best thing on wheels at that age.

By engineering I had learnt how to flash_bus-pass while holding onto dear life on the footboard. Many a bus-stop did I see in those years and many a girl did I observe being picked up by men on bikes. The heart craved for one (A bike I mean, girls weren’t priority then and seem to be out-of-syllabus now). 4 years of journeying by bus and I had decided the first salary would go for the down-payment of a bike. The Little Sisters of Charity would have to wait a little longer.

So far so good! Plans were clear-cut and had there been quick access to a computer I could have even given my reasons to the Little Sisters, in ppt format.

However, the clichéd twist-in-story wasn’t far off. Separation from the city emerged within a couple of months after college. Wanderlust set in on its own accord and there was no stopping him. From Bangalore to Mangalore on the west coast; from the west coast to the east coast to adorn Bhubaneshwar and then the plains of the north at Lucknow. My constant companions through all these cities were the urge for a bike and the inability at remembering if Chhak or Chowk was how they referred to a traffic junction in that city. Visits to Bangalore were getting shorter and when in the city I needed a quicker mode of transport than feet or buses. Averaging out the two-wheel drives I wanted and the four-wheeled vehicles of the more fat-walleted, I arrived at the three-wheeled autorickshaw.

Talk about digressing from a topic. Reminds me of a professor who went onto explain why windows shudder when planes fly-by. If memory serves right, it was debit-credit and a P & L statement that he wanted to talk about.

The intent of this piece is to talk about the auto drivers in Bangalore – my chosen mode of transport in the past few months … and how! Heck, nothing like an overdone introduction. Sometimes the foreplay is more fun than the act I think. On that note, let me stop here… my thoughts about the Autodrivers of Bangalore (“Man-eaters of Kumaon” feeling to it heh?) in the next blog.

Khaindly waiting pliss….

Conservation of Conversation

It’s one of those things that God didn’t distribute evenly amongst his human creations – an ability to converse. I’m guessing the distribution mechanism involves a random algorithm, developed by IBM and sold for a neat 18% profit to God and his scrooges. Those from my institute would vouch that God’s factory (last heard it was located in Taiwan) ain’t the only place using that random algorithm – remember one particular Quantitative-techniques oriented credit in the third term of the first year! (Lest ‘my institute’ makes me sound like a retard, let me be clear that I’m referring to the one that taught me management @ Lucknow).

So where is all the talk about the ability to converse taking us – Picture this!

************************** PICTURE 1 ******************************

Alexander, the Great, enters, dressed in pink pajamas and a striped toga to go with. Wine in hand; approaches Aristotle

Aristotle seated on a high-seat; one look into his mind tells he’s trying to add up 2 and 3 and arrive at 4; with a few Greek meters separating him and his disciple, he does prove that 2 and 3 add up to 4, but for the proof, assumes the following:

1. God is a mainframe depreciated using the Straight Line Method and
2. Archimedes lying nude in the bathtub actually said “Aiyyu... Rekha!”

Aristotle to Alexander: “What’s up Alex… how did the toga party go?”

Alexander looking roofwards: “Screw the party. I am thinking of setting off on a conquest. I’ve got this brave unit of 50 guys who will come along. Their love towards me has inspired them to join me. That and the daily allowance for onsite work. I will start by conquering Syria, head out to Babylon and see what them Babylonians have to say about my toga parties; Persia is pretty rich in camels – will conquer them for their humps, cross the Lut desert and the Hindukush mountain range. Then I shall set sights on that great state of Punjab - Bhangra might come into vogue sooner or later and I want to be in Punjab when it does – nice money in music production. The Oracle spoke of this singer called Dailer Mendi who will emerge to rule the world. Atleast that part of the world comprising of later day Jalandhar and Chandigarh.

From then on I shall be known as Alexander the Greatest and my picture shall be engraved on all stamps from now on”

Aristotle to Alexander: (after a pause) “Awesome. That’s neat dude! Sounds like fun… hmm... so, what else is happening in life?”

************************** END OF PICTURE 1 ************************

************************** PICTURE 2 ******************************

Two thick friends (thick on friendship, not in the head or at the waist) through chance, meet at the airport. The clock shows 10 AM. The flight is scheduled to leave at 10:15 AM. Both having booked tickets on Air Deccan, it means there is 1.5 hours for the flight to arrive. It’s their first meet after more than a year.

F1: “Oh yaar F2, after so many dayss! What’s up with you? Kaise ho aajkal?”

F2: “Thanks to God, everything is ok yaar. Bhabhi and Tinku are also doing well. I had been to USA some 8 months ago. What a strange place I say! Very difficult to get vegetarian food. But girls are very good looking yaar. And all wear very tiny clothes. Economic depression I think. Had gone for rafting in Colorado river yaar. Bahuth sahi thi. I’ll send photos to you. Same mail id no? I met with an accident over there. But was surprised no one robbed me when I was lying down unconscious and ambulance bhi very fast aagaya yaar. Not like hamara Dilli. Just now I’m going to Portugal in 3 weeks. Long term project hai naa. What else is happening in your life?”

F1: “Bas, same hai sab kuch. Tu batha... aur kya chal raha hai?”

************************** END OF PICTURE 2 ************************

It’s that group of people, of which F1 and Aristotle are sample representatives, against which I right. While one group strives to keep a conversation going, the other looks to kills it with the grace of Romesh Powar running 3 runs against a South African field set-up featuring Jonty Rhodes.

Their repertoire extends to “aur batha”, “aur kya” and “then” amongst other phrases. There must be some secret signs they use to recognize each other in public places, so they may avoid each other. The allowed list of phrases for such usage, I’m sure, is agreed upon on a quarterly basis through a laconic meeting. Wonder what the inauguration speech would be like. This is not so much an issue of language, than it is about people. And each language certainly has its trademark. I know that the most used Tamil version is “aprama”. Kind of rhymes with “triskaidekaphobia” but is pronounced A P R A M A!

The conductive effect of this group is wonderful. Even an excellent converser in a Coffee Day (would recommend a Café Mocha to my Mumbai friends, the one at Churchgate specifically) would wish he could dissolve into his Café Latte (one sachet sugar only please) when he faces a premium member of the group.

Premium Member: “Oh is it…. What else?”

Regular Bloke: “ What else??? “WHAT ELSE???” I just read out the brief history of mankind and all you have to say is “what el… glug glug glug…”

Phew! Now that it’s out of my system I can go rest in peace. In the meanwhile, my darling reader, please do write in and tell me what's new in life!

An Anecdote in 2 parts - Part 2

Readers, khaindly refer to the blog below this one for Part 1..which reminds me of Woody Allen's classic - "Of late, I'm at two with nature". On that note....

The folks at the gurukul lived up to the ancient times’ hospitality levels. The long ride had helped us work out a good appetite and we were fed with salted-barley water for appetizers. A sumptuous breakfast later, signs of fulfillment spread around the camp. The mind asked me to treat it as a one-day get away to a resort and not worry about the tasks ahead. Put munch ahead of the crunch it said. I waved a silent acknowledgement at the wisdom of the mind. So with a heavy stomach and tired hands I stepped onto the field, with another 20 of my elective-mates.

Taking the test along with us were students from the gurukul too. Most of them looked a couple of feet taller than me, with muscles that could have ripped my right hand and stuck it in my nose. And those were just the girls. Grace and Beauty competed to display themselves in these girls. I acknowledged both and passed my visiting card to them. They weren’t the only things that came in two that I appreciated in them. Mind you, I was all-and-all from a boys-only school. Co-education until then meant doing Math and Science homework on the same day. Many of my school mates ogled at the girls with the keenness of an optometrist staring into a cataract eye. If they had taken out copyrights on Beauty we had taken copyrights on Ogling!

Being the only one who had taken the elective with the intention of chasing marks and not due to athletic-endowment, the size difference between me and the rest was obvious. Even Arif who was the only guy as short as me (+3 inches) bowled a mean leg-spin during the inter-school matches and could run like a march-hare in pursuit. On the contrary I would have preferred the role of the rabbit facing head-lamps.

Without going into all the events, let me highlight the 2 that remain strong in memory, like bubble gum under the sole. The first is the 100 m sprint. Being a ground of limited lengths, the sprint had been reduced to 80 m with the time taken being extrapolated to 100 m. Most of the students including the girls from the gurukul had run it down in around 12 seconds. Yours truly trudged up to the yellow mark indicating the start. To the end of the 80m strip was the sports instructor of our rivals’ school and looking at me with trepidation was my own instructor. I checked if there was an exit at the end of the 80m – one that I could run through to never come back. The whistle was blown and I took off with the force of a mighty wind. It was a mighty windy day. I had a mean look in my left eye and a few grains of sand in my right. The damn start! Wild cheers were sent out knowing I was the weakest link – cheers from both camps. One laced with pity and the hope of saving face, the other laced with sarcasm and laughter. The latter, I observed was coming from my school mates. 18 seconds later I had reached the instructor at the other end, completely exhausted. Some grass had already grown in the otherwise barren ground in that time. He had stopped recording my time at the turn of the 15^th second. Anything below that meant no marks were awarded. Wasted calories I thought; I even had to contort my face when starting off.

The second of the events involved doing crunches – 30 of them in 60 seconds. Positioned on our toes, for each of us was one of the gurukul’s students. Mine was this very pretty girl of good height and gorgeous eyes. I think her name had a Laetitia or a Moss in it. Let’s call her Laetitia Moss to provide an identity. Her eyes were so loaded with kindness; I thought she would have participated in Mother Teresa look-alike contests if she didn’t become a sports instructor herself in the future. I introduced myself in a way that suggested I was looking for her mercy more than my strength to take me through this ordeal. Vincent to my left had got a guy as burly as he standing on his toes and he didn’t look pleased with whom I got. He would make me pay richly once back in school. I paid not just for my mistakes but for anyone’s in the last few benches of the class. Such was Vincent’s affection to me. The whistle was blown.

In the next 60 seconds I crunched and I puffed; I made sounds not suited to such societies; I swore at everything I could think of in a way Tibetan monks would have gone at Chengiz Khan’s life-size poster. With gravity pulling me on one side and the girl's legs calling out to me in whispers, I oscillated hopelessly. All I could conjure up were 12. Of these, 4 seemed like I only lifted my eyelids to stare at the sun and fall back without moving other body parts. I was at her mercy. Years ago, on one particularly lazy day, I had melted cheese with a single look. It was that same look that had landed on my eyes this time and deep inside I hoped she was born to the same cow as the cheese.

The instructor came up to each of the toe-crushers and asked them for the count.

“26” said Vincent’s guy, to my left. He had done well. Most of the marks were in his kitty. The instructor moved to the tall girl in front of me. My moment of truth was there – the girl and I exchanged glances. She looked from me to the instructor and back; and then back again at him. A soft whisper of the most delectable whiffs of air escaped her lips – “33”. A hard murmur of the most angered tones escaped Vincent’s – “You wait!!” I couldn’t care lesser! She was my saviour for that day and that elective. I wished to repay her. When we exchanged positions, her completing 42 crunches in a minute didn’t give me much of a chance for that repayment. I helped her back to her feet and overdid the thanking for the earlier help. By noon we were done and after a very good lunch were heading back to school. Vincent wanted to sit next to me during the journey; He said there was something personal he had to convey. He conveyed a sharp jab into my ribs. It was going to be a long ride and a longer day once back in school. It didn’t matter. I was in a different world by then. The only thing that mattered at that moment was that I had done 33 crunches in a minute. She had said so herself! I had chosen the right elective, indeed!

An Anecdote in 2 parts - Part 1

Every once in a while, a man has to stare into the business end of a double barrel and say “errr.. there’s rust there” and wink at the proprietor of the gun. I wasn’t really a ‘man’ when it was my chance to stare. Mistake me not dear fellas – a ‘man’ I may not have been, but pretty much had bought a one-way ticket to adulthood and in the meanwhile was going around with another three-lettered title - ‘boy’. The year was 1996 and I was in my 10^th standard. And whatever be the three-lettered title I went with, my proficiency with four-lettered words was just as phenomenal then, as it is now. So with much haste let me narrate this anecdote.

Those were the days when students facing the board exams were never put under so much pressure as the current crop is. The primary aim for a lot of us was to focus on the main subjects of Science and Math and become an engineer. A few wanted to become doctors. Tuitions were only then picking up as a trend and the staunchest of self-taught (excluding the backing, biting and training I got from teachers) blokes like me, worked out other means. Electives!

I swore I wouldn’t let others influence me and would think this through a good deal. The electives were (rolling of drums, lolling of tongues) – Computer Science, Accountancy and Commerce and last and certainly the least - Physical Education. Having had a tryst with my fair share of grey cells over the years, the first seemed to be the obvious choice. But the eldest of the Chivukula brothers had another opinion. Advice flew thick and fast like chicken in Hotel Empire (Shivajinagar branch). The process of brain-washing was quickly followed by a spin of that same organ in the washing machine’s drying compartment and another 2 hours of drying in the shade on the terrace. ”Computer Science would be interesting but would need dedication – Physical education is a sitter and you should take that!” Just an elective I thought and went with popular opinion. The neighbourhood cheered. Their first trained-in-theory physical instructor! I believed I had comfortably scored an extra 5% in Math and Science with that choice of electives, what with all the extra time I’d have on hands while my other-elective friends would have to slog it out. Hands clenched, there was a kneading of air between them and a devilish grin on the face for the first few days of school. Everything seemed to be working out smug. I celebrated with a crunchy samosa in the canteen. We Physical Education lot believed in having a good diet.

But then, every cloud worth its nimbus and cumulus had to have its dark lining. There was a small catch in the scheme plotted. You see, though now I am above-average in height and just-below-average in weight (fingers crossed behind back), it wasn’t the same back in ’96. In those days, I was the favourite victim of the class’ most creative bully – Vincent Nelson. We were both in physical education to top it off. Many believed that I got my strength and stamina from the ration shops of those days – in very limited quantities a month and in the black market only. There wasn’t much competition I had to put up with in the Shortest-kid-in-school category during the Annual Sports Day.

What I lacked in height, however, I managed to lack in weight too. On more occasions than one I participated in an 8-a-side football match which already had 16 players and a referee. Vincent Nelson suggested to the boys that I, being his best friend and all, couldn’t be kept out of sports, especially not a football match. He insisted that I get a chance too and in spite of resistance picked me to be the football for those 45 minutes. Nice tradition we had there going. My 15 minutes of fame on the field came, when on one particularly rough day, I was in totem thrown twice each into opposing goal posts by opposing teams and also sprained my right ankle while trying to establish contact with a slow-moving ball. All of a sudden, it occurred to me that Computer Science as an elective was what I was born for, made for and craved for. School rules prevented a change. Bless them I cursed and a tear sought its freedom from the eye.

The year went on pretty satisfactorily otherwise. There wasn’t much of studying to do for this elective – Know the length and breadth of a football field, hockey field, nearby meadows, the closest bus-stop and such statistics and one could pass with flying colors. Only a month to go for the final exams, the announcement came! It chilled my spine to the last vertebrae and further. We were to undergo an ‘exam’ in a residential school on the outskirts of the city. Pen and paper were to be replaced by a ground and tracks. The sports teacher, Mr. Dereck Browne said there would be all kinds of sprints to do apart from standard fitness exercises. 30 crunches in 60 seconds, 30 push-ups in another 60 seconds and so on and so forth. The highest number of push-ups I had done in life was 6. And that too, because Vincent one day started pushing me to the ground and I tried rising. 6 times I rose mimicking the spider in the Robert Bruce story and 6 times I had been punched down to the ground. I gave up after that. I fancied I could have done 10 during that incident. The marks were to be for the board exams. It wasn’t to be my elective after all I thought. The honeymoon was over. I sought a divorce; and was refused.

I was had to face fate… I had to stare into the business end of the double barrel and say “errr… there’s rust there” and wink. The day had come. We entered the gurukul-style school on the outskirts of Bangalore. Dread filled my body like huge pebbles and in those crevices it left were a large supply of tears, waiting to be let out. The exam thus began!

Part 2 in a day or 4

Emergency Exits and Excuse-me letters

Having run a quick 4.5 km, I thought I’d soak-in both the sweat and the feeling of being Michael Johnson on marijuana. Hmm.. Make that Ben Johnson on steroids. I sat down on the nearest and if I may add, only chair, in the gym. Hands locked in prayer-mode and beads of water falling off the brow; I stared down my unstrung shoes to the point where the lace tied themselves up. I knew they were scared of my setting off on another 4 km. Well, atleast someone took me seriously. And I thought to myself, if these strings took me seriously, the ones preceded by a capital g couldn’t be further behind.

The sadistic thoughts behind the gym-instructor's face were always prominent, like a streak of sweat left on the leather that binds treadmill handles. It says “come stick” when it actually means “come suck”. So when I heard my name being called out, I didn’t really jump with eagerness at the instructor’s voice – a la jack-in-the-box. My movements mimicked that of an antelope wearing a “my first name is Dinner” jacket and walking into a lion’s den with some ketchup bottles for antlers. Maintaining his curtness and stressing on his 22 inch biceps, the instructor suggested I go for a stroll instead of sitting there doing nothing. And the smirk he let hinted that He could have sleep-walked through 4.5 km on a Sunday morning. The options were easy to analyze – do more crunches if I loiter in the gym or stroll in the parking area if I didn’t. Which one offers greater comfort? Easy choice there! Fellow-followers of the religion of fitness saw a quick blur of 85 kgs leave the doors.

Half a minute later, retaining the antelope gait, I found myself at the watering hole gulping down a cool mug of beer water. The evening was meant to get a little more exciting.

Wasn’t long before I was joined by an old acquaintance – Curiosity. He hadn’t changed much. The shine on his coat was still on and so was that tiny curling of the lip he called a smile. Between the facial expressions of this acquaintance and the sadistic streak on the primary tenant of the gym, I could have said a 100 Hail Mary and thrown in an “Our father in heaven” free. Just to stay clear of trouble. Wasn’t to be. So we spoke, of times gone by and plans for the future. I suggested we take a little stroll and watched Curiosity promptly lead me out. He took a different path out of the building and I followed behind, murmuring “why not”?

The words were written in font 28, bold and italicized to stress on its importance – E M E R G E N C Y E X I T. Couldn’t have sent the message home better I thought. A lot that one can do with red paint nowadays. The acquaintance suggested I step out of that door and take in some of that fresh air. I tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. Must have been awhile since it was opened I thought and pushed harder. And what happened!?? The door came right away to life and shrieked with all the strength a door in this part of the country would shriek with. The door may as well have grown fists of iron and punched me in the gut. Wasn’t long before I saw two of them security folks run towards me, all the while giving the door a very worried look. I sensed small amounts of trouble and looked around for help. Curiosity had comfortably vanished and instead his third cousin, Shit-scared was hiding behind the curtain.

I had to remain calm. With the kind of cool that Al Capone might have waved with at security cameras on robbing the Bank of Scotland, Chicago, I waved a hand at the guards and said “false alarm”. I had developed an accent before security could have said “European”. I started to walk on to the other entrance hoping to find the first flight to the Seychelles. My quota of running for the day was long over and the well-guised attempt at running would best be described as ‘limping’. The security guards took a minute to dress up the wailing door in fresh nappies and caught up with me. I had by then moved to whistling a tune from Kill Bill and was appreciating the brilliant paint peeling off a corner in the lounge. Another 4 security guards, one carrying a fire extinguisher joined the other two. It ain’t a polite world no more. My smile was not returned by any of the guards. In the politest of tones they asked me to take a seat. I was willing to take one in the lounge if they’d let me run away after taking it. Of course, Al Capone wouldn’t have done that – oh no, certainly not on CCTV atleast. So I sat down relaxed. By now I had whistled 3 of the songs I had heard last and was on my way to copy-righting one of my own.

The head of security walked in pretty soon. 5 of the 6 guards pointed their hands to their foreheads. I guess they were hinting to me that the head of security was high on beef but low on thinking. The 6^th guard quickly recognized the critical frequency of the nearest pillar and started vibrating in resonance. Nice picture he made. But certainly not a better one than me. I stood up to shake hands with the security head. Took me a second to learn that smiling was banned last week in their department - cost-cutting. I guessed they needed the money to buy a microwave for burning people who set-off emergency exits.

Wasn’t long before he put me through a test, an easy one I’d say. “In atleast 100 words, write a letter to the Access Control Room, Subramanya Arcade 1, IBM Bangalore”. I swear I heard him whisper “(10 marks)”. It was credits like these that took me through Lucknow. And there I was on the convocation day, about a year ago, querying everyone I met about using Communications-I knowledge from term one in corporate life. The answer my doubting friends is “Yes, you do use Communications-I skills in corporate life – in the gyms”. I put my best hand forward (the one that pushed the emergency exit door) and sat down to write the letter. 20 minutes and a total of 18 sighs from all guards later, I had signed off with a flourish. I smiled at the letter and caressed it affectionately. I added the date to the top right-hand corner of the page. I smiled and caressed it once more and handed the baby over to the security head.

As the entourage walked out of the doors, my hand involuntarily tried waving a good-bye at them. The next day, the inbox was populated with a mail from an id I’ve not seen before – access control. Couple of managers copied on the mail, it said security had stressed upon me the importance of not sounding off alarms like that. The damn liars had not mentioned a word about importance the previous night. Atleast, the ‘stressing me’ part of it was true I thought.

Of late I notice from my corner eye that there is a guard aiming his prying eyes in my direction, every time I stroll in the corridors that have the emergency exits. Process improvement measures I think to myself and take my place in the lounge.