Capital Times – 2

You can read the Part 1 here.

Log 2

3^rd February 2010, 2030 Hrs, Agra

I got into the cab amidst the pre-dawn Delhi chill. I said the New Delhi railway station to the driver. He asked me if I had to go to the Pahadgunj end or someothername end. I told him in all honesty that I didn’t know. He sighed and said that okay, he would drop me off at the more usual end. I wondered what all this fuss about ‘ends’ was. I was dropped at the end where apparently the platform number 1 begins.

I went in to find out which platform my particular Shatabdi Train was laying eggs on – No. 16. Only once I started walking did I realize that No. 16 was, surprise surprise, the other ‘end’.

Trust me, by the time I walked with my entire luggage from PF No.1 to PF No.16, I was wondering if I might reach Agra if I walked just a little further.

I got into my coach huffing and puffing; which I think the fellow passengers noticed because two of them rushed to help me. Upon the striking of such cordial notes, my journey to Agra began.

There was a girl sitting next to me, who gave me one glance, sized me up mentally, decided I wasn’t worth a smile / greeting and immediately went to sleep. I wondered what it was about me that made my fellow-passengers behave like Sleeping, er, Beauties. Anyway, after eating the breakfast served by young men wearing black kurtas and red turbans (the brown bread was one of the most delicious I ever ate), I decided to look smart by reading the daily with seemingly utmost concentration. Of course, I fell asleep immediately too.

As soon as I got out from the Agra railway station, a strange sight greeted me. Men were crowded around the entrance and were yelling – all battle-like – and pointing fingers. Strongly reminiscent of the stock market during the times when one had to yell. Later I discovered that these were cabbies and this is how they ‘marked’ their tourists.

My cabbie (the one who had yelled, pointed at me, aggressively argued over me with another cabbie (who had also, apparently, yelled and pointed at me) and had therefore ‘earned’ me) practically grabbed my suitcase and dragged me to the cab. I told him the destination. He said sure and if  was in Agra for the first time. I said yes. He then matter-of-factly added: “aap Bangalore se hongi” (You must be from Bangalore).

I wondered if there was something called as having lived in a place for too long – so much so that the place is a part of who you are. Couldn’t help remembering Nathaniel Hawthrone’s lines in The Scarlet Letter:

Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil.

Anyway, I have roamed the whole Agra today without lunch and without Taj Mahal. Well, I did pass through a road where I managed to glimpse some of it. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome (!) to our Annual Spot the Taj Mahal contest:

 

The Agra town itself has so many heritage structures. Many crumbling, visibly occupied by poor tenants, houses have fine architecture that can be seen through all the ill-maintenance and age. I also saw the following structure that I thought must be some Palace:

 

Upon enquiry, turns out, it’s the St.Something college! Imagine having classes in a place like this. Feels fantastic to me, who went to colleges made of concrete and glass. Who knows, may be there are ghosts of some old Maharaja haunting it; I wonder if they’ll provide their royal help for cheating during exams.

Every nook and corner of Agra has structures that must have been once grand and beautiful. A place acquires so much character with age. But also visible in every nook and corner is the poverty, the lack of sanitation and outright randomness.

I guess not every country has such unbelievably glorious distant past and disproportionately clueless recent past.

Capital Times – 1

Log 1

2^nd February 2010, 2022 Hrs, South Delhi

Today, I filled my lungs with air from four cities – Bangalore, Delhi, Noida and Gaziabad.

Exactly seven months ago, when I flew for the first time to Delhi, I was travelling with a woman straight out of Page 2.9 (Page 2.9 = Want to be Page 3, almost there, but not yet) who was also surprisingly friendly. I remember feeling a shock of an unknown kind of heat hitting me as soon as I stepped out of the airbus. I told her that when we left Benglur, the air temperature outside was 22 degree C and in Delhi the air outside was 43 degrees. She laughed and welcomed me to Delhi.

Today, the air temperature was 16 degree C when I left Bengaluru behind and Delhi’s read 10 degrees when I set my skin against it again. Today, I was given company by a co-passenger who slept drooling throughout; only waking up in between to ask the air hostess (while looking through me as though I didn’t exist) if they had omelet. Also, this time I didn’t have time to pick up a book as I reached running in when they were making final boarding calls.

As though to make up for my lack of company (human or printed), our Captain was an entertaining one. My two interactions with him were very brief and consisted of me hearing his voice through the guest announcement system. He added his tiny personal observations while making the announcements. For example: “The air temperature outside is ten degree Celsius – quite cool, I must say-”.  Also, he had this vague unsure way of saying things he probably says every flight: “… Thank you and… hmmm, er, appreciate the business”.  He sounded a little cranky- but I can completely empathize; we share our employer.

I don’t know how they demarcate Delhi as New and Old. Delhi feels both New and Old at the same time. Places on which so many people have lived and died for so many hundreds of years start showing their age; even to people who only pass through them briefly. But Delhi also buzzes with so much new, so many impeccably dressed confident young ladies, so much infrastructure being added, so many good-smelling pastry shops with names like Angels In My Kitchen. 

By the way, I haven’t come here to see the grand monuments; I am as usual touring the underbelly of civilization. Visiting liquor shops, I mean.  Surprisingly, my Hindi came back to me even though I had let it rust for the last 6 months. And for the first time in 6 months, I was called Madame-ji again and was offered a glass of Chai in a dusty liquor shop sitting on a unopen carton of whiskies. Almost choked with nostalgia, I must tell you.( For those honorable readers who don’t understand why I should be choking with n., read this post.)

As a final observation, I would like to add that I know I am in the northern part of this country not because of the temperature shock or Hindi or chai. It’s because back here, the loo commodes have the kind of attachment that sprinkles water directly onto your you-know-what (as opposed to elsewhere I know where we use a kind of tiny hand-held shower).

Let’s close today’s journal with that entirely non-value additive note.  

To Tell Myself on a Random Friday Evening

“Gam zeh ya’avor”

Two Reviews

If all the world were as honest as I, we would be passing on a better earth to our children. If you are wondering where that statement came from, look at the name of this post. It’s called Two Reviews. And what does it contain? Nothing but Two Reviews. Well, may be some wamble-ramble here and there, but by and large, it contains two reviews.

The first review is about a movie called Monsoon Wedding. I know I am not one of those prompt reviewer birdies who post their solicited (or otherwise) opinions half an hour after the opening of the first show. But I think the most important criteria for reviewing a movie is to have actually watched it, which I have, therefore here we all are.

You dear reader, being so discerning, will read the storyline on the link I have conveniently provided. So let us circumvent all that story-telling protocol. Indeed, the story itself is not simple. It starts with many threads- a father torn between the harassment and the joy of his only daughter’s wedding, a young bride-to-be with a ‘nice’ boy who is still in love with her married ex, a mother with red-colored nails who catches up with a few smokes in her bathroom and a mama’s darling teenage boy who loves dancing and wants to become a chef. All these are members of just one family.

In fact, the primary thing about this movie that fills me with so much awe is how so many characters are so well-defined and well-shaped. No matter how little the exposure of one role is, the viewer gets a fairly good picture of the personality of that role. I can’t pin-point if that is to the actors’ merit or the director’s or the story’s. But it turns out to be a good mix.

The movie is also visually rich. The camera captures Delhi across golf courses, Punjabi marriages, chai shops and bazaars. And I enjoyed the peeks into India; not shockingly dramatic (like Mumbai under-belly scenes of Slumdog Millionaire) or unrealistically pinked (like, well, all Johar, Chopra, et al movies), just India as we know it. Then again, neither have I lived in Mumbai slums, nor have I lived in Delhi golf courses. So may be my observations aren’t very authentic.

The music, needless to mention (I love this phrase: why do you mention it if it is indeed needless?  Everyone mentions it anyway, like a collective joke), is enjoyable. You might also enjoy the whole range of languages you hear in the movie – I lost track of all the Hindi and English dialects and accents. It doesn’t even seem excessively done just to emphasize the ‘diversity’; each language fits very naturally on each character.

All in all, I think it’s a swift, no-nonsense narration. Although Nair’s put in this entirely unnecessary scene of a News show debate recording on censorship. Needless to mention (hehe it’s that needless phrase again), she was trying to make her case. But going past that, good movie. Catch up with it. If you still haven’t since 2001 A.D.

The second movie we will be hearing about is Avatar 3D(Ha! How’s that for promptness). I watched it with the rest of the three Achars in Fun Cinemas. The cinema hall itself wasn’t much Fun – the seats were good and all, but the smallest pack-size (10g, I kid you not) of  Popcorn cost Rs 75 and box office was underground and suffocating. The movie though, to put it in vernacular, was paisa vasool.

The story of Avatar is as old as time. Mighty evil against under-dog good. But we will never get tired of Evil v/s Good. I will always support Good and brother will always rally for Evil. (For some reason, Evil always seems cooler to teenagers.) Anyway, yeah we all liked it. The first half of the movie was somehow introductory in nature. You know, basically telling the viewer such-is-such and this-is-this. This is the part of the movie where you are allowed to lay back and enjoy the (un)natural beauty of Pandora. The second half is all dishoom-dishoom bang-bang.

Please don’t think of that as a criticism. Its actually the type of dishoom-dishoom bang-bang that makes you go Wow. Eventually it ended up giving Mater a mild migraine, but she doesn’t let all that come in her way.

Like all other fantasy stories, this one was very close to reality. Destruction of natural habitats for “progres” is the story of our times. In fact, if there was one umbrella activity that would describe the human activity of the last and this century, it would be persistent, well-funded and single-minded destruction of natural habitats. The movie has a message, it does pang you. The nature of your pang and what you do with it is, of course, is entirely your outlook on life.

Dad was mighty impressed with all the animation and warships (so were we all) and Mom found the statement “… and then, the aliens (humans) returned to their dying planet.” very disturbing. Much discussion on the topic ensued on the dining table that night. Then again, much of the Achar “family talk” is actually the stuff that people are writing about in papers.

But as far as my perception goes, dear reader, we are indeed a dying planet, aren’t we?

Simple Smile

Today has not been a great day.

We had a meeting with the big man at 9.15 AM. I hurried father up to leave early cause he had to drop me, we got stuck in thick traffic and reached late anyway at 10 AM.

I have spent the whole day neurotically obsessing over the over-cluttered desk which cannot be un-cluttered cause there is simply no space.

A colleague and I went on a scouting trip to search for a whisky glass mid-day, finally managed to like only one sample, which was when brought back to office rejected by all and sundry whose rejection matters. So tomorrow we are to retrace the same trip to sheepishly return the sample.   

A lot of big ego-friction churning around finally spilled out today; spraying on us helpless underlings. A lot of “I know”ing and non-commital-shrugging was in place.

It is 10PM and I am working. Not even on my desk (It’s too cluttered, remember?).I don’t know when I will leave for home.

And as I sit here, on the 7th floor and gaze out of the wall-window at the night Benglur sky, sudden fire-works errupt. For the last 15 min, somebody has lit the sky with colourful, big fire-works. I have no idea who is celebrating what. The sky is so black and the works are so bright, it’s beautiful. I can’t help but gaze and smile. My mind joins the unknown person(s) in the unknown celebration(s).

Happiness comes from unexpected corners.

Another Exit

When mother and father walked back home, there was the sort of silence that comes only with a news of death. We didn’t ask what exactly had happened; there would be ample time for stories.

And hence, I lose one more dear friend from childhood. One more chapter closed.

I choose to not dwell into could-have-beens and would-have-beens. I only wonder if 10 years later I can still remember how his laughter sounded like. There are also some sudden pangs of guilt – May be I should have called more often; but then, don’t all of us have over own battles to fight?

As is natural, life will be back on it’s track with or without anyone.

 I hope he finds the peace that he was always in quest of.

All said and felt, I cannot pity the dead. I pity the living they leave behind.

How I Know I Am Not Alcohol-Dependent

My brain was never my biggest virtue. In fact, if you did a proper survey of all and sundry who know me, you will find that my father would be the only respondent who would rate me a positive integer on the 0 to 10 scale of smartness.

But however silent, I do have a functional one, you know. While not quite in the same league as Sherlock Holmes’, I am immensly satisfied with it (considering it’s the only brain I have). On a bright day, if you came close enough, you might actually hear it whizzing. Today is one such bright day and my brain has deduced that it’s owner is not an alcoholic. For the following reasons:

1. There has been a whole whisky bottle standing on my table for 15 days and I realised only today that I had “Wow Booze!” on my table. Also that if it went missing, nobody would give a damn.

2. Immediately after the above realisation I ordered a cup of tea.

3. At around 2000 hrs today, there was an small tasting (a new blend) session in my office. I asked M how it tasted after he was done with it.

4. All the while I stand in the bars/clubs while I run some booze promotion, surrounded by people who are downing peg after peg, the only thing I can wish for is that hot cup of Horlicks that Mrs Achar will be ready with the moment I get back home.

So you see, I am officially one of those sad cases of professional desensitization. Like some of those photo-journalist birds who just stand and click photos when someone is on fire.

Do not mourn for my sensitivity loss, Dear Reader, it’s not like I need alcohol to have a sub-functional mind.

It Is That Time

It is that time again; I can lean back on my chair, stretch my legs on the empty whisky cartons below my desk and write.

After days, there is enough time to justify opening wordpress.com and flinging arbitrary stuff at the unsuspecting public.

The bosses are all at a meeting too important for me to occupy precious chair space. Being the underling, practically everyone is my boss. Therefore, almost everybody other than me is at ze meeting, so there’s more oxygen on floor per person.

It is that time of the day too. There is no energetic freshness of pre-lunch or the resigned work-loadedness of later evening. Afternoon- when you are bored enough to laze and there is time enough to procrastinate before the day consumes you.

talking of consumption, a nice pizza for lunch has been consumed. The post-pizza drowsiness has been partially overcome by the cup of piping hot (fresh out of the old aluminium vessel) chai shared with S on the emergency-exit stairs. The partial overcoming is not beause of the sub-standarness of the chai, but because we talked of work over it too.

It is that time I can slip out of the new beige-colored shoes and gaze at them. When did I get non-monotonous enough to buy footwear in color other than black, I wonder. I have always bought watch straps, shoes, bags, pens, mobiles phones, scooters (totally one in number),purses and eye-liners in black.

 It is that time again (and again) you want to burn down the specific set of dudes who built spreadsheet softwares in general and MS Excel in specific. The ungratifying excel can wait while I sigh over the life that was before. The simple joy of sitting in shady godowns and writing on scribble pads instead of being perched inside a fancy tower with a desk and a laptop.

I suddenly  realise I have still not published so many useful things I have written. I search for the drafts in my hard discs and realise that all the accompanying pics are still in the camera. So the whole constructive process gets post-poned to a hypothetical leisure day.

This is that time of the year wordpress puts that charming falling snow thingy on our blogs. It was one such falling-snow year ago that I moved in here. Much has changed since then. But more such sentiments on yearly update post that is soon to be intended to be drafted.

This is that time of the day again when there is enough time to  wonder if I should make the call. Should I call and look like a doofus or should I maintain a cool-aloofness and look like a cool doofus?

Sometimes, insane work is all that saves my sanity. Along with the free 6.30PM snacks in the cafeteria. And for free snacks, they are pretty good.

Torn Between Blood and Snot

Love is not always good for your health.

You see, I love my city. Actually, I recently had a crazy fling with Goa. You might point out that I cheated on steady old Benglur, but that was only a one time thing. It didn’t mean anything. I got carried away. I still love Benglur.

But turns out, even though I have spent all my life (minus the time in Coorg, Manipal, Chandigarh and Goa) in the old metropolis, I still won’t get used to this weather. What is your problem, Mother asks, people from all over the country come here for the damn weather and you can’t stay in it. Well, she didn’t actually use the D word, but I added it to make the statement more dramatic.

Now that we are talking about it, I don’t think I have ever heard Mater use a swear word. The strongest one she says is ‘Damn’ and that too always in a positive context. Like ‘your blood Hemoglobin count this month is damn good, keep it up’. But we aren’t talking about blood tests or swearing mothers; poke me when I deviate too much.

I was saying I can’t get used to this weather. But that is not truth in its entirety (will we ever know truth in its entirety, I wonder). My mind and heart rejoice this weather. The generally cool air that gets cooler whenever you get close to a water body (usually a BWSSB pipe leak) or a tree (a miraculous escapee of the Bengaluru Metro construction holocaust). The rain that threatens to pour anytime now, keeps the sky cloudy, keeps the wind breezy and generally brings out the romantic even in the grumpiest IT employee.

I get major kicks out of walking in this weather. I have cooked up excuses like ‘fitness’ just so I can walk in the neighborhood jogger’s park and take in all of this weather. I might have also now and then burst out into “It’s A Wonderful World”: scaring away a few weak-hearted fellow walkers.

Following is the picture of a rainbow that S and I saw from the 15th floor of our tower:

View from 15th floor, Canberra Tower, UB City

Well, sadly, that’s where the fairy tale ends. While the mind and heart and soul whistle in the presence of a classic Banglorean weather, the Achar Immune System completely disapproves of it. Let me demonstrate just how firm my antibodies are on this stand:

Scenario 1: I am in a non-Benglur location: Nasal passage clear. Booming rude health, so to speak.

Scenario 2: I am flying on my way to Benglur from a non-Benglur location: Still clear.

Scenario 3: I land in BIAL: One big prompt sneeze announcing the strike. All respiratory passages suddenly blocked so I have to start using my mouth to breathe (thereby resembling an ugly mutant goldfish). Hand kerchiefs suddenly need to be fished out from the mysterious depths of my hand bag. Yes, I still use hand-kerchiefs. No, I don’t think they are less cool than tissue paper. Asthalin check, Ebastine check, Cetrizine check. The sneezing continues. On and on and on.

Apparently, the Hand Kerchief Makers’ Association of Bangalore is considering inviting me to preside over their annual meeting. Apparently Monte Carlo India and Cipla sales teams have classified me under their Key Accounts. Only apparently, I haven’t got an official confirmation from the concerned authorities, but they have a ring of truth to them.

(Digression: I wish my otherwise aggressive immune system developed some kind of allergy to precious metals that have been dug out of earth to be shaped into flowers that aren’t even botanically accurate. Mother has been long threatening to buy me “serious” jewelry. Not your Commercial Street kind, but proper Krishniah Chetty & Sons kind. Apparently, for some reason, it is the duty of every parent to load their girl progeny with jewelry. A dark, nameless fear has crept into my soul. I think she actually has conspired to spend this weekend vigorously swiping the plastic monies in exchange of some glowing metal.)

Apart from affecting my general mental state and ability of fair judgment (when you have a bad cold, you feel like throwing things at people), the incompatibility to this weather also deeply affects my fashion statements. I seem to be perpetually dressed like an Eskimo Cultural Ambassador. It doesn’t help that the AC at office is always turned on at full blast. I still cannot comprehend how some colleagues can breeze around in nylon thin cloth smiling like sunshine. Belonging to minority, we Anti-AC people are never redressed. In fact, for some unfathomable reason, people even find us amusing. A colleague asked me jovially today morning if I thought I was in the Himalayas. 

Paddy, if you remember him from this post, says people like me should leave places like Benglur as soon as we can manage to run away. Mother, on the other hand, has worked out the costing of Me Living in Bangalore vis-à-vis Me Living in Any Other Place. I am always amazed at how mother wastes only little time on sentimental arguments (You should stay with your parents and family) and jumps right away to the objective (See how much HRA you can save if you stayed here).

So, when someone casually asks me the dreaded question (Would you prefer working out of the Bangalore Office?), I am torn deep down. What would you rather tolerate: A Bleeding Heart or a Wheezy Breath plus Snotty Nose?

On Benglur Roads – Part II

You know how it is. You are flying good times; then you are pulled down to insipid grounds, unpleasant jerk like. You mumble grumble tch-tch to get back to the good place. A week later, what with this and that, you sort of accept things as they are and say Right Ho to real life.

 

Allow me to illustrate. Last Wednesday, I looked through the glass wall of my office and saw at the stretch of land below me. Hey, where did all the hills and mountains go, why is the horizon so plain, I wondered. I also wondered why there were suddenly so many buildings. A nano second later, I realized I was in Benglur City now and had left Goa behind 10 days ago. Heart-breaking it was. Also, eye-opening. And one needs a healthy dose of things done to one’s anatomy (breaking hearts and opening eyes, I mean) once in a while.

 

The Achar Close Friends’ Circle (consisting of a wide range of unfortunate specimens) was also quite taken aback by this uncharacteristic behavior. I mean to say, Persons A, B and C have always seen Person X as being a cold fish; flicking off people and places from memory nonchalantly, like a speck of dust from the sleeves, you get the picture.

 

Suddenly Person X returns from a work assignment in Goa and starts wearing I Love Goa hats, endlessly chattering about the desserts to try out in the Panjim area, goes glaze-faced at the mention of the word Phenim (Feni) and gets a distant longing expression in the eyes. (Well, I didn’t actually wear I Love Goa hats, but the others I did). Naturally, Persons A, B and C start wondering about the mental health of Person X. Art Thou Thyself, they start asking. Ammu even diagnosed the condition – “You had far too much fun, I guess” – she shook her head gravely. (Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome Ammu to these chronicles. You might see more of her in subsequent posts.) 

 

In the end, Time – the Great Healer – had to come to the rescue of the above mentioned person X. Aided by a Kinetic Honda. Anyway, lets not get ahead of ourselves; we’ll treat things in the right chronology. 

 

It has been quite sometime since I created this fine piece of art where you read about my riding. Since then, I have garnered much experience on traveling on roads riding a two wheeler. Seasoned, you could say. Also very spoilt, turns out. After the sheer joy of not having to wait without a schedule (which you have to if you are traveling by public transportation) and getting to slither like a reptile in gaps among vehicles during traffic jams (which you can’t if you are driving the old girl Maruti 800), I wanted nothing other than a two-wheeler now that am back to the old metropolis.

 

But the trick is, you see, the Achar household doesn’t own a two-wheeler. Only padre’s old Ind-Suzuki, the one which was bought when I was a less-than-year old infant, qualifying it to be ancient relic in terms of bike life-cycles. Hence, we are reduced to beg, borrow or steal. Mother strongly disapproves of stealing bikes and we are all very scared of her disapproval, so we have decided to only beg or borrow. I have so far “borrowed” a Scooty Pep, a Honda Activa (both of which kept my company for a month) and presently a Kinetic Honda from well-meaning friends.

The said Kinetic Honda, while not an ancient relic like the said Ind Suzuki, is not what you’d call a bike bursting with youth. It has been longer on road than I have been. So, understandably, it has developed a strict personality of its own. It’s deceptively light when you are parking it in for the day at 10 PM; and surprisingly heavy when you need to pull it out of a street parking lot at 10 AM blocking the road for almost a minute and causing much Benglur public outrage.

 

But something tells me this is more of my fault than the bike. I guess bikes can smell mistrust; like they say horses can smell fear. Or elephants, I don’t know which animal for sure. Ever since this idea dawned on me, I have been working on developing a ‘positive attitude’. I think there are signs that I am making slow but definite progress with the relationship building. While on Day 1 the cold starting took 15 minutes lead time, on Day 8 it has taken only 3. See, see, progress. The bike is (literally and figuratively) warming up to me.

 

What with all the preoccupation with the bike and Benglur traffic, Goa mercifully started taking a back seat

 

I think I am now safely at a stage of life where I can dish out a few pointers about riding on Benglur roads to the general populace. A few humble pointers:

 

1. Try not to run over living things. Especially human beings. They aren’t a sportive species; they make a hell a lot of noise when they are hit.
2. No matter how much you think he/she deserves it, do NOT show your middle finger to another person on the road. Especially if they are driving a much, much bigger vehicle than you are. (I say this out of bitter experience.)
3. When a cabbie heading to Bengaluru International Airport is continuously blaring, just let him pass; even if it is beyond laws of physics. Because if you don’t, he’ll keep blaring his horn (if it comes to that) for a kilometer at a stretch. I know it feels unfair, but it isn’t worth your ear drums.
4. Do not tag behind a BMTC Volvo bus. They have ultrasonic speeds. Even if you tag behind a trotting puppy on the pavement, you’ll travel faster. (Don’t take me wrong, I love BMTC buses. I practically spent my formative years in them. But I don’t think they should be used by our F1 team, that’s all.)
5. Do not assume things. Just because a particular stretch of road did not have pot holes yesterday, doesn’t mean it won’t have them today. Just because a road was two-way yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t one-way today.

 

Petty little things they are all. Just keep them on mind and you will feel like a God riding on our roads – at a divine speed of 30 kmph on good days.