My Publicized Life

The Laya Project

2010-04-27T16:15:00.000+05:30

I had the opportunity to listen to a music CD of 'The Laya Project' a few weeks ago. I had never heard of it before, but was in the mood to try something different and this was highly recommended by a friend. No sooner than I heard the music I knew I HAD to watch the film, and no sooner than the first few reels were down, I knew I HAD to attempt a review :) So here goes!

Its hard to pin the Laya project down to a stereotype. Its an unconventional film, much more than a music video and not quite a regular documentary. For a film marketed as being shot on the shores of six nations affected by the tsunami, the approach it takes is surprisingly different. You naturally expect it to highlight the grim realities of life...scenes of devastation, gritty tales of hardships and survival against the odds. But what you get instead is the raw beauty of nature. Gorgeous landscapes, glorious sunsets, rolling mists and brilliantly hued skies. And music. Melodious, haunting and earthy, it seems to flow through the people and the landscapes. The end effect is sublime.

The central theme of the film appears to be the relationship between man and nature. An unsaid tenet seems to be the double-edged nature of this relationship; the people who live most in harmony with nature are the ones most directly affected by its fury. What I liked was that none of this was spoken, it was all conveyed through the wonderful imagery - glimpses of nature and images of people seemingly expressionless, but whose eyes and faces speak volumes. What you soon realize is that this is not a documentary in the traditional sense; there's no concrete storyline, little narration and no obvious message, instead it relies on the images and music to tell a story all by themselves. The scene, early on, of a ramshackle straw hut lashed by wind and rain with a fire burning bravely indoors, and a group of youths playing a game of football in blissful oblivion of the pouring rain, is moving beyond words. As are, as described earlier, the visages of the people, their shy smiles, lined faces and unspoken words.

So, while at the start you can't help wondering if the tsunami angle is nothing more than a gimmick to visit off-beat locales to film and record the music of the 'natives', the film gradually brings you to the subtle realization that there's more to it than that. The film, in a way that I feel strongly but can't clearly describe, is about the spirit of man. That spirit is somehow enmeshed in the beauty of the culture, the fragility of the lifestyle, the songs that pay homage to nature, and the knowledge that all of this continues despite the tsunami.

The most striking aspect of the film, however, is the seamless fusion between the music and the imagery. There's no concept of 'background' here, the two entities meld together like they were always meant to be one. The music, as mentioned earlier, seems to flow through the images and bind them all together. And because of this amalgamation, you get a clear demonstration of what 'folk music' is all about - music that's inspired by nature and lifestyle. The best scenes are when this music is recorded right in the surroundings where it originated, for instance the 'Katalu Talu' recording that just breathes ethnicity and 'Buduburru', recorded on the fringes of a coconut plantation.

So if you're something of a genuine music aficionado, or a fan of off-beat films, or even like nature or ethnicity, you will not regret watching/listening to the Laya Project. I'll even wager that it'll end up occupying pride of place in your collection!

P.S: I'm not a marketing agent of, or in any way connected to the project :) In fact, in the interests of honesty, current circumstances compelled me to download it off the Internet! Not something I'm proud of, but I couldn't pass up the chance to watch it at the earliest. Will redeem myself by purchasing the DVD+CD box set at the first opportunity.

A friendly rejoinder...

2010-02-17T15:42:00.000+05:30

There are those refreshingly eye-opening pieces of writing that you chance upon from time to time. Pieces that, by dint of their sheer persuasion and clarity awaken you to points of view that you didn't know existed. That make you sit up and go "Oh! Why didn't I think of that myself"

The piece that I'm referring to is not one of those ;-)

The article in question is the latest by my old friend and all-round excellent individual Pushkar. One of those chaps who, apart from having humongous brains that spill out on the sidewalk each time he shakes his head, is blessed with a gifted sense of humour, and whose penchant for translating his numerous movie experiences into highly entertaining (and usually fairly accurate) blog posts is only exceeded by his newfound penchant for fatherhood.

Which is why I was shocked to read his rather lukewarm take on some of the movies that I personally consider to be the Reel God's Greatest Gift To Humanity.

So for the first time in my life, I'm going to attempt a bit of a rejoinder refuting his views. The rather lukewarm ones. That you can read about here.

Ok, so here goes...

Avatar:
This one, to put it simply, is brilliance personified. IMHHHO (in my humble, honest and huncensored opinion), is one of those iconic movies that stand in a class by themselves. The ones that trigger a mad rush of cheap clones and are milked to death in a (usually fruitless) effort to regain past glory. The only others in this class I can think of, off the cuff, are Terminator I & II and Jurassic Park.

Of course, the ground-breaking special effects have been praised to no end already, and rightfully so, so there's nothing I can say that hasn't been said before. But then special effects, even of the pathbreaking variety, have seldom (if ever) catapulted a movie into the higher echelons of...ummm...moviedom. Ultimately what you need, pure and simple, is a storyline that is worthy of mention. And I think this is where Avatar scores.

All the IMAX 3D and CGI effects aside, this could well have been a documentary that said "Save the planet". Cameron's vision of Pandora's literally inter-connected, intelligent ecosystem was a very clever way of depicting the more subtle (but equally real) connections among Earth's own ecosystem. Another stand-out aspect was his pitting of a highly evolved, machinized, scientific civilization against one that, although highly evolved in its own way, relied entirely on nature for its needs. And I mean in a symbiotic, not parasitic way. Also, as something of a die-hard sci-fi fanatic, one recurring theme you're constantly subject to is Earth's constant invasion by various bullying alien races that ravage their own worlds before suddenly realizing "Hey, here's a liveable planet with a bunch of dumb-headed fools that we never bothered to visit" and then descend on our precious Earth before being sent packing by a Humankind that miraculously, gloriously, impossibly unites in retaliation. I think Cameron's done well to turn that concept around on its head. Mankind becomes the evil alien race that needs to be sent packing. And although it is ultimately a human who miraculously, gloriously, impossibly saves the planet, this at least made for a different point of view.

The only crib I have is the movie's excessive fallback on time-worn cliches. Be it the no nonsense, tough as nails, expletive spouting marine, or the heroine-passionately-hates-but-subsequently-adores-hero routine, or the brave martyrdom of the suporting cast, or the hopeless-student-inexplicably-betters-teacher routine, you take your pick. Almost feels like Cameron was handed a $10 wager saying "Bet you can't take every single cliche from every single movie ever made, and put it into one single film and make it successful". But hey, if he had to do it, at least he did it well!

3 Idiots:
There's very few things to not like about the movie. One among them is definitely the tear jerking deliver-baby-with-vaccum-cleaner-on-TT-table scene, and other is...well...casting a bunch of 30 or 40 year-olds as engineering students. Although I must say Aamir plays his role a gazillion times better than, for instance, the Big B in Paa. And since I'm talking about negatives, another one is the sterotypicalization (if there is such a word) of characters and the oversimplification (there is such a word!) of concepts. Everyone in the movie is a very clear shade of white or black, there are almost zero greys anywhere. Oh, and there's Kareena Kapoor.

But then (ignoring the K factor) this movie was clearly meant as an entertainer first and educator second, so you can't fault the above too much. Nothing to find fault with in the message either. Although, of course, being a first-rate example of the dithering specimens of humanity that are wasting away their life, I can clearly attest that the most difficult thing in life is knowing what you really want to do. But that's a philosophy for later.

So, as a wholesome family entertainer, and that too one with a coherent, cogent message (albeit not one as original as Lage Raho Munnabhai), I really think this movie is top class. The acting was excellent all around. The character of Chatur Ramalingam I thought was excellently portrayed, and Boman Irani was all out brilliant, in a different league altogether. I'm starting to think this guy could compete with Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow! Ok, so that's a bit of an exagerration...ok, so its a huge exaggeration ;-), but you get my meaning.

So well, in summary, excellent movie that is a genuine rib-tickler without trying conspicuously to be a rib-tickler (the whole Balatkar speech and various other bits throughout the movie are sheer genius), one that doesn't have a half-bad message, one that isn't totally all out of the bounds of realism and that keeps you thinking for a bit once you've left the theatre...you can't really ask for more!

So yeah, that's my take on the whole thing. Of course, I could be wrong in everything I said, but I'm probably not ;-) I haven't really gotten to watch Sherlock Holmes yet...will probably try downloading it sometime. And then probably bore you to death with another inane post. And oh, in the interests of completeness (yes, I am that jobless!), here's brief reviews of a couple of other flicks I watched recently:

Paa - An exercise in gimmickiness and unrelatedness. If R. Balki was a blind tailor stitching a shirt with 10 different hues of cloth and no measuring tape, the end product would not be dissimilar. The protagonist's role should probably have been given to the Big B back when he was only a Little B...he would have looked infinitely more natural then. And word is that a sequel is being planned, called Maa (I kid you not) starring Mrs. B. God save us all.

Ishqiya - Loved Naseeruddin Shah, Arshad Warsi, the authenticity of the settings and the dialogue. Everything else sucked.

Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi: SRK is irritating enough as it is. So I don't know why anyone would cast him as an irritating as hell oldish dude who tries hard to be hep but only succeeds in being even more irritating. I'm not even going to talk about all the flights of fancy and the absolute suspension of realism. And the wife comes across as a kind-hearted but egocentric bitch. BUT (yes, that's a huge but) there's something about the film that makes it watchable. No clue what...but I actually saw it twice (seriously!) without being bored witless. And the musical score is brilliant, with the title song having some of the best lyrics this side of R.D. Burman.

Ok, well, that's all for now folks! Until the next brilliant (or hopelessly horrible) movie comes along, or another equally jobless individual comes up with a refutation of this post...seeya later!

School reunion

2010-01-03T16:23:00.000+05:30

Ok, so lets first get the obvious out of the way. The blog has died.

Not a pleasant state of affairs, I know. But then there are few things unpleasanter than a chance glance upon a once closely-clasped-to-your-bosom thingy revealing the last entry dated December 25, 2008. An accurate description of the state of affairs would be, I believe, forlorn and woebegone.

So here then, is an attempt at resurrection. No clue, really, if it will work. Sometime in the past 373.25 days, I think I managed to lose the writing habit entirely. And in a little corner of my head lurks the fear that these things, once lost, don't really return. But I guess that's a matter beyond me. I'll do what I have to, and leave the rest in the capable hands of the Woman Upstairs. (been trying shed the male chauvinist part of the MCP image for some time now)

One of the things I've been thinking about off late, is the meetings with the DAV gang. Going into flashback mode, I was one of those kids that completed my entire schooling in a single place, the D.A.V. Public School, Hyderabad, and was fortunate enough to have a vast majority of classmates who also did the same. And in retrospect, there can be few things more fun than spending your formative years with the same bunch of folks. To discuss manly, grownup things like girls and porn with the same kid into whose behind you once tried to shove a sharpened pencil.

And while we scattered like corn once released from the confines of the school, a few of us managed to stay in touch over the years. And then some trickled in slowly the past year, some more Returned From Foreign and so on, and we finally had two reunions of sorts in the previous month.

It was, well, different than I expected. Whenever you envision these things, you always think the back-slapping, bear-hugging, oh you've grown a moustache kind of scenarios. You're not really thinking about meeting a group of adults from different backgrounds, each with their own independent lives. In your head, you're just looking forward to see the grown-up avatar of the kid whose tiffin you shared. So it was a little unexpected to be looking a bunch of somewhat polite, sober adults sitting around a restaurant sipping soup. And even more unexpected was the realization that I was one of those polite sober adults myself, and not the schoolkid in shorts that I imagined.

But that was just the initial mental feedback. Once the intros were done, once we settled in and were done with the polite "Oh so where do you work" questions, things started to happen. There started the talk of the exploits in school, the childhood crushes, the teacher troubles and the tyranny of Uncle Sir (to give a brief character background, this guy was part van driver - hence the "uncle", part vice-principal - hence the "Sir", and all fearsome, twisted, fire-breathing dragon - hence the "tyranny"). And once this happened, the kids in us overcame the adult restrictions. I wish I could say it was like in the movies...a nice CGI-aided shimmering effect later, the baritone handsome adult is magically replaced by a squeaky kid with braces...but no, it wasn't like that.

Just that, well, from being adults with independent lives, we became folks who had a common childhood. And there came the common realization we cherished those childhood memories, that those memories were more important than the current us. So perhaps in a way, cheesy special effects aside, it was like in the movies. The suave 6-footer with a Canadian accent became the snot-nosed kid with the half-tucked shirt and tie askew (he was a 6-footer even then, but that's a different story), the dignified banker was once again the class bully, the guy who was just now worried about his job in Satyam was once again the Glorious Boy Wonder of our youth, and so forth.

And, as is inevitable when you spend 10 years being jointly persecuted by teachers and van drivers and other assorted creatures, a colourful walk down memory lane lay in store. From the inspired poetry in English class ("Chuk chuk goes the train, like Sai's empty brain"), which by the way, I still think is a work of creative genius, to being punished in assembly because we didn't oil our hair enough, to fighting over whether our principal's prized vintage car was a Ford or a Dodge, to our miserable (well, mostly) attempts at wooing girls, to the Glorious Boy Wonder's solitary scolding in 10 years because he was always raising his hand when a question was asked, to the clandestine (or so they hoped) affair between the maths and history teachers, to poking fun at the boy (while, perhaps, secretly envying his status) who always roamed around with a bunch of the hottest girls, we didn't really have a shortage of stories to tell.

And the other thing is, regardless of the conversations, or the anecdotes or childhood jokes, or perhaps because of them, this sort of heartwarming feeling starts to creep in. Hard to describe it, but it's not dissimilar to the feeling you have after several pegs of rum. No, I don't mean the drowsy, head-spinning, desperate to puke feeling, but the one that comes about 120 ml before that (or 90 if you're a regular...but I'm deviating here). The fact is, you get that feeling, and its nice. So, while on the outside we just look like a bunch of crazy adults swapping stories about poking pencils in backsides, in reality we're a bunch of overgrown kids who feel like we're about to be smashed. (Hmmmm...that was not quite the picture I had in mind...but hey, I told you I was out of practice!) And for those of you that don't drink...shame on you...the feeling is not far from the one you get from listening to a favorite song...say of Mohit Chauhan or Mozart or Himesh or whatever. Bottom line, it's a heartwarming feeling.

And you can't really ask for much more in life. A heartwarming meeting with childhood buddies. Seeing a guy with kids perform the same matchstick tricks that held us spellbound as kids, hearing folks talk about their first attempt at watching a porn movie, introducing my wife to the girl I had a secret crush on (but who, as I sadly learnt, failed to have a crush on me simply because I didn't lend her a Sanskrit book. Damn it...why did I have to be such a goddamn geek!!),laughing together, sharing stories, forgetting who we were for those few brief moments.

So well, on the whole, it was excellent. And I would love to do it again. The thing to watch out for, though, in these things, is that we try not to let our current adult (well, relatively speaking) minds, with all of our worries and opinions and egos and responsibilities and what not, overshadow our childhood selves. I mean, I would always love to meet the kid who trashed my ass in school. And it would be shame not to do it just because I might not have much in common with a conservative, hard-working banker. You get the drift.

Revealing a hidden world

2008-12-26T00:19:00.000+05:30

Necessary disclaimer: I have absolutely no first-hand experience in crime. Excluding, that is, my solitary attempt at stealing a fork from a restaurant. Things were going well until I surreptitiously slipped the fork into my front jeans pocket and then sat down...but that's a different story. All of what follows is an innocent man's take on what he perceives is the murky world of crime, based purely on the written word.

Ever hear the phrase "Crime doesn't pay"? Well, it does, apparently, and it does so well that it's serious business. Heck, I think it could fall right into mainstream commerce, except for the fact that you're doing something that's banned by the law. But its more than just commerce...it’s a lifestyle. It's deeply entrenched in your thoughts, your beliefs, your entire value system. And yes, criminals do have a value system...and a complex one at that.

Both these aspects - the commerce and the lifestyle - are highlighted individually by two brilliant books...'Freakonomics' by Steven D. Levitt and the lesser-known 'One day as a gang leader' by Sudhir Venkatesh. Both books are based on the same set of events...doctorate student of sociology Sudhir Venkatesh's journey into the world of African-American street gangs involved in the crack-cocaine drug trade.

Freakonomics was, to me, like a breath of fresh air. It dispelled all stereotypes, all preconceived notions about how things work. In its own way, it was as freaky as a Ripley's show, in that it made me sit up, eyes popping and go 'Wow!' And of all the outrageous conclusions that Levitt makes, the one that struck me the most was in his chapter "Why do drug dealers stay with their moms". His premise, to put it in a nutshell, is that a drug-dealing gang's economics are really no different from that of McDonald's.

In his crisp, informative yet entertaining style, Levitt tells you the story of Sudhir Venkatesh, a student of the University of Chicago, who walks into a Housing Project (read African-American slum) and confronts members of the Black Gangster Disciple Nation with a multiple-choice questionnaire, the first question of which reads “How does it feel to be black and poor?” However, he emerges unscathed from this rather dubious start, and goes on to practically live with the gang for the next decade, in the process gaining a wealth of information about the gang operations and slum lifestyle in general.

While Levitt does weave an interesting tale, he focuses mainly on the economics. He prepares ‘revenue statements’ of a gang boss, which has interesting entries like 'Mercenary fighters’ and ‘Extortion fees’, and ends in a statement ‘Net profit accruing to leader’, a figure which is just under the rest of the gang’s earnings combined. He goes on from there to compare the corporate pyramid of the gang to that of McDonalds, weighs the dangers of being a street-level drug-dealer against some of the most dangerous legitimate jobs in the US, and compares the benefits and disincentives policy of the gang with that of any corporate. The end point he makes is this; a drug-dealing gang, illegal activities, lifestyle, dangers and all, is a commercial enterprise. And like any other successful enterprise, it is bound by the laws of economics. While the method of operations may differ markedly, the policies and principles are the same as that of any other profit-making company in the world.

One thing that was plain from the book, though, was that Levitt viewed this whole episode as an outsider. A highly intelligent, shrewd outsider for sure, but nevertheless he was an outsider. His examination of the gang and of black culture was clinical…observing journal entries, noting facts and drawing conclusions from those facts. Not so with Sudhir Venkatesh. He gives himself up wholeheartedly to the Housing Project, its inhabitants, the gang members and their lifestyle. He ends up becoming a close friend and a confidante of the gang leader, and is not only a first-hand witness, but also a (not always unwilling) part of their daily activities. No surprise then, that his own book ‘One day as a gang leader’ is entirely different from Freakonomics.

Aside from the fact that the book follows the kind of thinking required for Sudhir’s field of specialization (sociology), it is different in that Sudhir does not always aim to draw conclusions. His book reads like an interesting journal, where he states his day-to-day observations as he sees them and leaves the interpretation up to the reader. Several of the conclusions he does draw are also quite open to debate.

Sudhir strikes me as a person, who while being highly intelligent and fearless in his own way, also has a charming (and maybe disarming) naivete about him, and this is probably what gains him the trust of the gang members and the housing project inhabitants. He weaves an intricate, complex tale about life in the housing projects, the trials and tribulations of the unemployed homeless poor, the pathos of drug-addicts, the inability of the government to make a difference to their lives, and the political role played by the gang and community leaders.

One of the things you notice rather quickly is that financials aside, a black drug-dealing street gang is as far removed from McDonald’s as possible. It has a distinct culture all its own, and is a permanent (if parasitic) fixture of life in black neighborhoods. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that it was involved in the drug trade, the relationship could even be called symbiotic. In a place where there’s no police, no law and order and governance, the gang becomes a government of sorts, regulating life in the projects, providing shelter to the homeless (for a fee, obviously), settling disputes and even getting involved in community projects.

The community – that’s another thing that strikes you – it’s practically a world in itself, as far removed from a ‘normal’ lifestyle as possible. Forget about connections with the rest of the city…the housing project on the other side of the highway is like a different world, a territory of its own. And the rules of society that have evolved in the neighborhood again make you go “Wow”. It reminds you of a jungle, where animals fear each other but still live off each other. In a strange twist, people look to the gang to maintain law and order, and the police are the enemy. A shopkeeper strikes a deal with the gang leader; he pays him ‘protection’ fees so long as he promises to make his minions shop there, and they collectively purchase items that equal the value of the fees. A police officer and a priest mediate a discussion between two opposing gangs. The topic of discussion – the price to pay for a drive-by shooting incident on the other gang’s territory, which led to a few deaths. An ‘amicable’ result is reached – the gang that did the shooting allows the other to sell drugs on its territory for a week, and both gangs agree to maintain the peace.

Sudhir, on the whole, comes across as a good, fairly impartial chronicler. He seems to be (or at least, portrays himself as) a person who’s more a part of scenery than anything else, a person with no close friends in the neighborhood, and no enemies either. He shares beers with the homeless and watches in agony as they get beaten up by the gang but eats his meals at the gang leader’s house. He listens to the stories of pimps, prostitutes and drug-addicts, and spends an equal amount of time with the building president who controls their lives. His actions might be morally debatable at times (to be fair, he spends a lot of time debating them himself) but he does give you a complete, colorful description of life in the projects.

So on the whole, while ‘One day…’ isn’t as fast a read as Freakonomics, and doesn’t have the same ‘Wow’ quotient that Freakonomics does (which, no doubt, is why it’s less popular), it really is a great book in its own right. One that takes you into places you’ve probably never been before, one that alternately tugs at your heartstrings and makes you sit up in anger…or disbelief. In fact, thinking about it now, I don’t know if there’ll ever be another piece of literature quite like this, simply because few other authors would go where Sudhir has gone.

Bottom-line, if you’re looking for a good way to spend a rainy day…pick up both books! You’ll probably find Freakonomics more interesting, but will want to keep coming back to ‘One day as a gang leader’ time and again.

Death by music

2008-10-26T13:37:00.000+05:30

For those few hours, I found myself trapped, both mentally and physically. The chair I was seated on, although comfortable enough, was not conducive to easy escape. The demi-darkness served to further alienate me…making the combined assault on my senses all the more unbearable.

I was in a living hell.

The only small comfort…I wasn’t alone in this nightmare. All around me, I perceived a struggling, squirming mass of humanity, all part of this confusion, all similarly trapped.

Ahead of us, covering a significant portion of a vast 70mm screen, lay the culprit - an image of a face, magnified so as to be larger than life, frighteningly close-up, each bristle of facial hair standing out in utmost clarity.

And then came the real terror…the sound. From the Dolby Surround Sound speakers came forth a somewhat baritone, mostly nasal and completely tuneless voice, shouting out the lyrics of a song with unbridled gusto…and the image in the screen zoomed back to show a shortish heavyset man, guitar in hand, breathlessly jumping up and down on the same spot, surrounded by swaying, adoring masses screaming “MonTY….MonTY..”

So there you have it. I was at Prasads, watching the Himesh Reshammiya flick, Karrzzzz.

Before you go on to read the rest of this post, heed this dire warning – if you value your life, and more so your sanity…stay away! (Umm...I mean from the film, not the post). For the love of God, stay away!! Go spend 3 hours sniffing the aromatic waters of Tank Bund and you’d be less traumatized.

Now I’ve always perceived Satish Kaushik as a somewhat irritating, rather loud slapstick comedian, but didn’t really know he was mentally imbalanced. I mean, why oh why would you take a timeless classic with an excellent musical score, and try and remake it with Himesh Reshammiya in the lead?? I mean, alright, Bollywood has had its share of stars who couldn’t act to save their lives, and I remember being similarly baffled by Karishma Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan at the start of their careers…but…and here’s the key point…none of them ever tried to drown their bad acting with terrible singing.

Not so with Himesh. He sings, and he sings, and just when you think it’s over and done with, he sings some more. Delights in belching out song after soulless song in an unending sequence, so that after a while the end of one song seems to coincide with the start of another, and the whole movie melts into one bewildering hodgepodge of unintelligible sound.

I mean…picture this…each time Monty does a concert, he starts to have flashbacks of his previous birth, and each time he does that, Himesh starts to sweat. And his face typically covers at least 30% of the screen at such moments, so while I’m frantically trying to squint and avert my gaze from the screen, I hear these horrified whispers of “He’s going to start singing now…I just know it. Oh shit oh shit…its going to start any moment now” and then we all mentally brace ourselves for the horrors to follow.

And then…suddenly…as I’m pulling my hair out and groaning in agony…I hear this simple, divine sound…one that floats down, grabs hold of me and pulls me out of the darkness. Its stark simplicity and haunting melody are in such contrast to the rest of the proceedings that you realize that music can, after all, be a divine gift. And in the few short seconds when the tune is played, my faith in humanity is reaffirmed and I find myself more able to withstand the rest of the movie…because atleast I now have something to cling to…a hope that the tune would be replayed sometime later. I’m talking, of course, of the original Karz tune…if ever there was a thing of beauty, that was it. And judging from the way it was hummed at the exits, it was evident that the only thing the audience cared to remember about the movie was this tune.

Which is a shame, really, because if only there had been someone else playing the lead, and someone with actual singing ability doing the songs, the movie would have been watchable. Of course, there were some silly bits involving Gulshan Grover which were completely unfathomable…I still have no clue who his character was, why he kept playing notes from an oversized tiffin-box type keyboard attached to a metal hand, or why, indeed, he was in the movie at all…but still, it would have been watchable. The only real saving grace in the film…and a big one at that…was Urmila Matondkar. Looked gorgeous, acted superb and played her role to perfection. Pity it had to be wasted on this farce.

But…at the end of it all…I do have one positive takeaway. I can live the rest of my life fearlessly, knowing that the sins of all my previous lives have finally been washed away by this movie experience :-)

Highway Love

2008-09-11T14:10:00.000+05:30

You're riding along on a narrow road, when you see a distant line of trucks approaching you. You calculate the gap between the trucks and the kerb, slow down slightly and wait for the trucks to pass you. And as each one passes, you feel the familiar "whooosh" of wind hitting you, blowing your jacket back and threating to lift your helmet off your head. As you wait for the next truck to pass, you smile...you realize you love the highway!

You're riding on a curve down an open road, when you feel a blast of wind hit you from the side. "Crosswind" you think, and for the next several moments shift your body around in an effort to keep the bike perpendicular to the ground. You know in your heart that a heavy bike like the Enfield will not lose its balance or be blown off the road, but that doesn't stop a stab of fear from passing through your heart. As it passes, you smile...you realize you love the highway!

You've spent all day riding down dusty, potholed country roads. Had hours of off-roading and passing through quaint little villages and fields. The downside, however, is that your butt is aching, you're sweaty and dirty with the faint smell of hay and dung in your nostrils. Suddenly you hit the open highway and accelerate. You see smooth road ahead, the wind is in your hair and doing a sixty feels like doing a hundred. You smile...you realize you love the highway!

You've had a night of debauchery. Gotten drunk, played the fool, said things you shouldn't have said and done things you maybe wouldn't have done otherwise. You wake up with a mild hangover, sip your tea dispiritedly and can't look at your food. You feel sick and wonder if this is what life is about. And then you hit the road. You notice the morning mist, the dew on the leaves, and the slick wet tarmac zipping past you. As you smell the asphalt and feel the wind on your cheek, you realize that life, after all, is as it should be. You smile...you realize you love the highway!

You're passing through a small, crowded town. The long wait outside a railway track barrier, constantly asking your way around, navigating around pedestrians and being stuck in a long traffic jam forcefully bring back all that you hate about the city. And then, through the mess of traffic, you see open spaces ahead. Your heart leaps, you navigate your bike into the last few gaps, and then suddenly, you're on the open road. You revel in the freedom, raise the throttle and feel your sweat magically disappear. You smile...you realize you love the highway!

You've been riding through pouring rains for the past several hours. You finally see a little dhaba by the roadside and decide to take a break. You strip off your jacket and the dhaba owner brings you hot tea. As you sip your tea, watch trucks ply on the rain-slicked road and listen to the dhaba owner talk about how he's seen only 2 Enfields in the past two years, you realize that this is one of the few times you're actually content with your life. You're quite happy doing exactly what you're doing at that moment. You smile...you realize you love the highway!

Its past sunset and the road is getting very dark, very fast. You reach the next town in a hurry and hunt around in the darkness for aplace to spend the night, only to realize that the town has just two lodges, neither of which you consider appropriate. As you're alone in the relative silence of your semi-clean, mildly smelly room, you feel you don't belong here. Then you realize that this place is, in fact, not you. The dirty room, the crackpot owner and the filthy town will all be as they are the next morning, maybe for all eternity, but this is just a brief pit-stop for you. You're not a part of this, and as long as you're moving, you're not really a part of anything. In several hours you'll be riding the open road and this town will only be a fleeting memory. You smile...you realize you love the highway!

You go into a deep trance thinking of all the above. You wake up to your surroundings with a start as you realize you're headed towards a stationary truck. Your odometer shows you've crossed 50km that you've no memory of crossing, and by some miracle you've not yet been splattered all over the asphalt. As you squeeze the brakes urgently,your bike squealing to a stop, you frown...you realize you better respect the highway!!

A study in contrasts

2008-08-20T17:50:00.000+05:30

Grim-faced, sweaty, tired, downtrodden in the worst possible way, they squatted in a row at the entrance, mumbling to themselves and shuffling around in a vain attempt at comfort. Through sunken eyes, they looked at the world around them, a world that no longer held any surprises, any traces of joy or beauty. I wondered why anyone would willingly choose to bear the burden they did, hour after hour, day after day. For they, in the most literal sense, bore the burden of humanity. A humanity that first failed them, and then mocked at their misery in the crudest fashion, by forcing them to bend under the weight of their fellow humans for a living. Making them scurry around like rats, at the beck and call of their more privileged kin who they ferried on their shoulders on makeshift palanquins.

More often than not, the occupiers of these cushioned seats on bamboo sticks were the stereotypical 'behenjis' and 'auntyjis', mildly obese, clad in flashy sarees & munching on snacks, who would rather force their ponderous weight on the underprivileged than make an effort to walk a few hundred meters and climb a few gentle steps.

What a paradox it must be for these people, to be forced into such perpetual drudgery at a place that symbolized eternal beauty!

And that was only the half of it. These palanquin bearers and their occupants were a small part of the multitude that thronged the premises, wearing gaudy clothes, chattering away a dime a dozen, making loud noises and behaving like for all they cared, the place was theirs to do with as they pleased...beauty and serenity be damned!

Where was I witnessing all this? Only at a UNESCO world heritage site. At one of the most beautiful monuments that India can boast of, a place that people frequently go into raptures about. I was at Ajanta caves.

As I looked back, I realized how keen I had been to visit the caves. Whenever I'd mentioned to anyone that I loved traveling, one of the questions that invariably popped up were "Have you visited Ajanta/Ellora?" And when I replied in the negative, they'd look at me in wonder and break into the aforementioned raptures.

I wasn't kidding myself earlier. I knew I intensely disliked touristy places, and I knew, too, that this place would be touristy. But somehow, with all the rave reviews I received, I figured I'd enjoy the place in spite of it.

I was wrong. The dislike started to creep in earlier in the day, when I rode to the embarking point with my travel companions Rahul & Veena. We had hardly gotten off our bikes when we were mobbed by shopkeepers, all of whom simultaneously launched into their marketing pitches in their broken, memorized English. We braved our way through the mob, past the crowded shopping mall and the persistent hawkers to the bus bay for the mandatory 4km bus ride to the caves. At which point the government really excelled itself with the thoughtless transport arrangements. Rahul started to bicker while pointing out the various flaws, and I felt my heart sink further...it continued that way throughout the bus ride where I actually felt ashamed that I was besmirching the beauty of a ride with this touristy jaunt.

Even so, I was disappointed at my own lack of interest at the caves. I don’t claim to be an art or history connoisseur, but I can appreciate beauty when I see it. And to call the viharas, stupas, paintings and sculptures merely beautiful would be to insult them. Who was I to judge the tireless work of centuries worth of artisans and sculptors of various dynasties? So when Rahul (who, being an architect and something of a history aficionado, has a much greater appreciation of the caves) kept asking me why I was so obviously disinterested, I didn't really have an answer. I knew it was something to do with the tourists but couldn't put my finger on it.

And then, as we visited Pithalkora caves the next day, it became fairly apparent. Pithalkora caves are situated in pristine, virgin settings. The surrounding hills were lush green and a little waterfall and bunches of flowers added to the beauty. And, in stark
contrast to their more famous counterpart, the caves are located away from the well-trodden path and as yet are virtually untouched by tourism.

As I wandered around the caves at leisure, my mind was telling me that it was only a fraction of the beauty of Ajanta. Much older and less well maintained, the paintings were darkened and nearly invisible, the few sculptures around were exposed to the elements and were in a state of disrepair.

Yet, somehow, I loved them. As I entered a residential chamber and ran my hand across a stone bed, I could close my eyes and transport myself back in time. I sat on the bed and imagined the monks of yesteryear moving around the place. As I looked at the sculptures of guards at the gate, I could visualize monarchs entering through those same gates thousands of years ago...I could see sculptors tapping away at the rocks to fashion these creations.

I guess that's where the answer lay. It wasn't just enough for me to see these paintings and appreciate them with my mind. I had to feel them; I had to be a part of them. Like most things artistic, they had to touch my soul.

And I'm sure you'll agree, its kind of hard to do any soul-touching when you're gazing at a statue of Buddha and there's this fellow behind you clapping for all he's worth so he can listen to the echo. When there's ushers nagging you to accept their guide services...at a fraction of the cost of the official guides who just finished nagging you a few minutes ago.

As I walked out of caves 1 and 2 of Ajanta, I was witness to another common sight of Indian society. Our love for white skins. A foreign couple was going about their sightseeing quietly, when a stout marwadi-type businessman asked them loudly "So you are enjaaying??" No reply. Then, louder "You are enjaaying this place or not??" A forced yes from the foreigners, and the businessman went away with a satisfied smile. As Rahul remarked, it’s hard not to say yes when you're asked a question at knifepoint!

So anyways, my point is, I wonder why it is that humans are so intent on being the worst parasites on this planet? Why everything that the public touches ends up ruined. I know there's no easy solution when the place runs on the economy offered by tourism, but is it really so hard to maintain some discretion, a little bit of respect and a little bit of dignity? To at least try not to make a fool of yourself at a public place?

Why is it that, when you're looking at the most outstanding specimens of art that glorify generations of Man, you're constantly forced to ponder about the current decadence of humanity?

Goodbye, Grandpa

2007-12-27T18:14:00.000+05:30

My earliest memories of you are a little vague...intermingled as they are between your first two houses, one in Aspirin Gardens and the other in West Mambalam. Memories of a model MiG plane, the drives to the beach in the Matador van, the same Russian slideshows that you showed us year after year after much begging and pleading on our behalf, your prized coin collection from which you invariably let us keep a coin or two each, the anecdotes about your interactions with Russians. In fact, despite later events, I guess I owe you, more than anyone else, my lifelong fascination for that country.

And then, there was the chess. So far as the rest of the family was concerned, you were the undisputed King of Chess. I cannot recall how often the phrase "Nobody plays chess like Balakrishnan thatha" would pop up in family circles. You knew the fact and were proud of it. I still recall your earliest lessons, where you meticulously showed me how the pieces moved and taught me to count the value of each piece, and repeatedly mentioned the golden rule of castling early. My favourite games with you where when, usually after beating me soundly in the first game, you would set up the pieces again but play without a Minister yourself. The result was usually the same but at least I could put up a fight in these games.

I can go and on about the good times that you showed me - the endless games of Canasta, your drawing me the same picture of an "aanai" decked in chains year after year, the walks to Panagal park and the long train rides to the Beach - but I guess these are memories every little kid should have. For every little kid, the relationship with his grandfather is special; an older person who somehow manages to bridge the vast age gap and become a kid himself, someone who can provide the comforts of an adult yet without being an authority figure.

But then times moved on and circumstances changed. We grew up and starting moving on the path to being independent adults ourselves, while you grew older, and with it started to lose your own sense of independence. I started noticing that troubled frown on your brow increasingly often, and it continued till your last day but through it all, you still ensured that you did not neglect your duties as a grandfather.

I guess it was tough. Your newest grandchildren were growing up in a world where kids didn't care about model MiG planes and slideshows any more. Instead, it was you who had to adapt to changing technology - from the omnipresent cellphone to the DVD to the Internet. And yet, somehow, you coped. I remember how thrilled you were when we gave you your first cellphone so you needn't walk down to the phone booth to make STD calls anymore. Although it did take us a while to get you off the habit of inserting your hearing aid in one ear and putting the phone next to the other! And I knew for sure you were doing alright when I saw you deeply involved in a game of chess with my youngest cousin...correcting his moves from time to time...although he had you scratching your head in despair a lot more often than I did!

And I guess life came full circle when my brother decided to marry a Russian. In a flash, you became the old 'Russian thatha' once again. You had always cribbed that you had forgotten all your Russian but somehow that didn't stop you from having long talks with K in her native tongue. And you were the star attraction at their wedding, by virtue of being the only person who could communicate fluently with K's parents. I can still see your smile as Mom sat you by K's dad so he wouldn't get too bored, and soon you guys were chattering away happily in Russian, ignoring all around you.

Our own relationship had continued on unscathed. The walks to the beach had ended and the Russian stories were taken up by others, but we took to talking about philosophy, spirituality and religion instead. I could not have been more proud when you told me you were releasing a book on the subject. I actually had a grandfather who was now a certified author! Wow!! And you, in return, appreciated my habit of blogging. As I write this now, I wonder what you would have thought of this post. About the number of corrections you'd probably have made! But I guess you'd have liked it...you always did like people saying good things about you! :)

I remember clearly our last chess game a few months ago. Things were more even between us now...you had lost some of your touch with age and lack of practice, and I had been honing my own game through computer programs for the sole purpose of beating you soundly for once. What a humdinger of a game it was! We both forgot about our own sides of the board and went all out attacking each other, we were both convinced we had the winning move at hand, and then I finally checkmated you exactly one move before your own checkmate. You looked at the board with surprise, scanned it in vain for an escape route, splat out your standard expletive of "Chah! Shaniyan" and then proceeded to lecture me on maintaining my defences! And then went in and told my uncle that I wasn't such a bad player, after all!

When I got the call a few days ago about your passing away, I kept waiting for the news to sink in, for it to hit me in the head, but somehow it never did, even later, throughout the funeral proceedings. And it still hasn't. But maybe its because the first thought that came to me when I put the phone down were the words you mentioned to me not so long ago "The only thing that's inevitable about life is death, and yet it’s about the only thing that we refuse to accept"

So I accept that your time had come. You had lived your life, and it was time for you to go. And I will not mourn your death.

But I do miss you. A lot.

The eternal and the ephemeral

2007-12-12T13:51:00.000+05:30

Do you ever feel like you're made up of multiple layers? Each layer as vivid and real as the next. Like so many of these abstract concepts, it’s easy to understand but hard to explain. It's like there's several different me's inside of me. The closest (and most cliched) example I can give is of Russian ‘Matryoshka’ dolls...the ones where you open one up to find another, smaller replica inside, and so on so forth ad infinitum.

And the different me's take turns to come up to the surface. While there's one on the outside, interacting with the world, imparting his wisdom to the poor sodden souls who have the misfortune of stumbling across him, the others sit inside fretting, fuming and generally building up steam, until one of them finally breaks through and has his moment in the limelight. Kind of like how the cute little alien breaks out of Sigourney Weaver and trashes around...but a lot less visual.

For instance, it’s the travel aficionado part of me who's currently on the surface. All he thinks about is travel; he spends his spare time at office browsing through travel photos and blogs and spends his time at home chalking out routes on maps. And this guy's been hogging the limelight for more than his fair share of time...so he's starting to get a bit on my nerves and I've been giving serious thought to giving him the pink slip and letting somebody else out for a change.

And this is precisely what I did during my latest trip to Hyderabad. I was loitering around vacantly at home, doing nothing in particular when my eye happened to catch a little booklet of Krishnamurthy. For lack of anything better to do, picked it up and started to leaf through it, and it proved to be just the wake-up call that the philosopher in me needed. We had some good times, he and I, in the older days when we spent many a happy moment contemplating the meaning of life and such, but he's tended to become a bit more dormant in recent times. In fact I have reason to believe he’s taken a long leave of absence, as have most of the other me's, unable to withstand the continuous onslaught of Traveler Me.

Well, Philosopher Me's back with a vengeance now. Unpacked his bags, rolled up the shutters and firmly set up shop. And I couldn't be happier about it. Always nice to have a change of scenery.

Well anyways, I must admit I haven't really read too much of Krishnamurthy, but what I did read I've enjoyed...and been able to relate to, for the most part. Ditto with Kahlil Gibran. Makes for a good change from guys like, say, Robin Sharma, who impart wonderful words of wisdom like "think of your mind as a green meadow and your thoughts as beautiful flowers inside it...if you can do that you'll find everlasting happiness"

What got the old grey cells into a bit of a tizzy this time, though, was Krishnamurthy's take on reincarnation. He seems to adamantly refuse to give a simple yes or no answer to whether reincarnation really exists, but from what I understood, refers to reincarnation as a concept that arose because of our need to take our thoughts and personalities with us beyond the grave. And that's bang on, me thinks.

If you've ever asked someone what is it that actually reincarnates, the answer you'd most likely get is that the body perishes after death, but the soul moves on to inhabit the next body that's waiting in line to be born. Or sometimes, that the soul has a bit of a vacation in heaven before being born again. And if the person on the receiving end of your question happens to be a Bollywood director, you'd even be rewarded with a nice visual of a candle flame dropping down from the heavens into Waheeda Rahman's womb, and a child subsequently being born with a 'taveez' around his neck, who then invariably grows up to become Shahrukh Khan and then proceeds to run around the ruins of palaces with his fair maiden in tow.

And what most of the religious types would say, in effect, is that by doing such and such in life, you work towards giving your soul a permanent vacation, so it continues to bask in the heavens and the assembly line of birth and death continues without your soul being part of the proceedings.

But if you think about it, none of that makes too much sense. What is it exactly that you are made up of? Flesh and bone, obviously, and then there's the thoughts, the personalities and the characteristics that define you. What Krishnamurthy refers to as "the me, the mine, the ego and the personality". In effect, the Philosopher Me, the Traveler Me and the hundred other Me's I was referring to at the start. So when I die, does my soul actually bundle up all these hundred Me's and deposit them into some other chap who just happens to choose that moment to be born? So that you have another me, or at least a part of me that continues to walk the earth after I've died? Sounds a lot like I'm trying to be immortal, doesn't it?

And I guess that's maybe what reincarnation boils down to finally. Humanity's quest for immortality. We think about all the wonderful things that we do throughout life, the difference we make to the world and to those around us, that there's so much of stuff going on inside of us, and we somehow cannot face the fact that all of this will be snuffed out like the proverbial candle once we’ve signed up for an audience with the grim reaper. And so, we have this convenient theory that all that dies is the flesh while the 'real' you...namely your thoughts and personalities and so forth, continues to exist after you die. Very comforting, indeed!

But for the sake of argument, lets say that your soul is not just your mental make-up, or a carrier of your mental make-up. Lets say that your mental make-up is as physical, as temporary as your body, and that you have another, third entity called the soul that resides in you, apart from your body and your personality. So when you die, everything that you know to be 'you', in essence, dies and the soul moves on, to start life afresh, to make new beginnings with no connection to the life gone by. Well, maybe its true, but it seems like an awful waste of time to me. What purpose does the poor soul achieve by jumping from body to body when everything it is withers off and dies every hundred years or so? And what does the darn thing actually do in a body, given that everything that goes on in flesh and mind is not related to it? And besides, this contradicts the theory of earning that permanent vacation for your soul by doing such and such...because everything you do is part of your personality and dies with you anyways!

Another thought that pops up at this point…no doubt the byproduct of a brilliant but underutilized mind…what happens when you tie up science-fiction (the believable sort) with philosophy? Just as you're thrashing around in your death throes, lets say a mad scientist comes along, grabs a handful of your DNA and creates a clone in double-quick time. So what does your soul do then? Does it decide to reincarnate with the good stuff, so you have Clone Me and Reincarnated Me both walking the earth? And to stretch this train of thought further, lets say yet another, even madder scientist happens to stroll past your house, and this guy makes off with your brain and conducts a brain transplant. So although the flesh dies, your thoughts, memories and personalities remain intact in another body. So what happens to reincarnation then? Where does your existing soul go and how do these two new me's get their souls? Do they each get a third-party soul? If they do, are they then part me and part someone else? Numerous they are, the permutations and combinations!

So do I think the whole concept of reincarnation is balderdash? Well, not exactly. I like to keep an open mind, but, to quote yet another clichéd saying, not so open that my brains fall out. Just because I don’t believe in something, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It’s quite possible (even probable, actually) that I'm just a lowly dull individual plodding the earth, who with his fairly limited brain activity is unable to comprehend the higher truths of life. So if some brilliant chap comes along who can make some sense of this whole business, I'm all ears. Me and my soul, both.

But until then...a firm policy of hedonism is what does for me. And the fact that also it’s the most convenient policy to follow is just sheer coincidence. As Krishnamurthy, in another gem of wisdom, when asked if he believes in reincarnation, says, "I don't believe". Period. No point wasting your time believing in this, that or the other, contemplating eternal truths and all that. There’s really enough to deal with in this life, without wasting your time doing stuff that ensures you’re not born a dung-beetle in the next.

Err...unless of course, you're like me and choose to waste that precious time writing irrelevant blogs with weighty titles instead!!

Travel Diary - Yana/Gokarna

2007-11-13T17:21:00.000+05:30

Nov 7th - The Day Before

I'm sitting at my desk, supposedly concentrating on winding up my work, but my head refuses to cooperate. My brains have decided to start their vacation a little early and are already out there exploring the sun, sand and surf. Another 14 hours before the rest of me can catch up! I constantly stare at the clock on my desktop in a vain effort to make time flow faster.

Just as I'm starting to go over the top, I'm taught a lesson in relativity by Gaurav's mail about the Anniv Ride. My head emerges from the vast blue oceans it was so blissfully immersed in, to go traipsing along rickety bridges with scenic backdrops. Not for the first time, I wonder if one lifetime will be enough to cover all the places I want to see.

As thoughts head back to my own little journey, I wonder if I made the right decision in starting a ride with a seized engine, and I pray the bike will hold up for the next 4 days. I also feel a slight pang of emotion...in all likelihood this will be my last ride on the bike. She may be a rusted old contraption that's quite literally falling apart at the seams, but she is also the first Enfield I've ever owned after a lifetime of wanting one. I hope she has it in her to pull through one last ride.

Tomorrow we leave – Destination Arambol, North Goa

Nov 8th – Bangalore – Shimoga – Sagar – Siddapur - Sirsi

It’s about 8.30pm on the night of Diwali. The night is pitch black with no moon to illuminate the surroundings. Alin and I are riding down a narrow country road, past Siddapur on our way to the small town of Sirsi, when Alin suddenly coasts to a halt and switches off his lights. I stare at him for a few seconds through the glare of my own lamp, when he urgently asks me to follow suit. As the headlight goes off, enveloping us in darkness, I am aware of a faint light in the sky and look up. The sight that I see is not easily described.

If I were a tycoon, I’d spend a million dollars to see that sight every night of my life, and it would still fall short.

If I were a painter, I’d spend a lifetime trying to capture that sight on canvas, and it would still fall short.

It’s like the Gods, in an ostentatious display of craftsmanship, have gathered together a billion bright lights and woven them together into the deep velvet fabric of the night sky, then cast it above us lowly mortals as a protective, comforting blanket.

Or perhaps, in a town that seemed strangely dull and lifeless to the festivities of Diwali, the heavens were giving us a gentle reminder of our culture with a celestial display of fireworks, revealing the stars of a million constellations that shimmered and shone in myriad patterns, seemingly trying to make up for the dreariness of life below.

It’s safe to say I’ve looked up at the sky thousands of times since I was born, and a hundred more times in my dreams, but I’ve never seen it this beautiful. But then again, I live in a big city, where we take pride in hiding the beauty of the heavens with our own shroud of dust and pollution.

Apart from these few precious moments, the rest of today’s ride has been fairly nondescript. We adopted an easy, relaxed pace right from the start, halting as often as we pleased for as long as we liked. We soon realized that doing Goa would be impossible if we carried on at this pace, so a COP was carried out. I’d always wanted to do Yana, so Alin suggested we reach Sirsi by nightfall, do Yana early the next day and then spend the third day in Honavar. We could explore some beaches and islands in the vicinity and head back to Bangalore on day four. I haven’t seen any of these places before, so I readily agree.

We spend some time watching the sky, and then move on to reach Sirsi. After some hunting around, we find a decent hotel that has an attached bar & restaurant. I’m fairly amused to see that all of the hotel staff, from the manager to the cleaning boys, are clustered around a single TV featuring the India-Pakistan cricket match and are oblivious to all else. It takes some effort to tear them away from the television long enough to serve us some food and beer. I want to go back to that spot to check the sky again, but we are both too bushed to ride back, so we decide to hit the sack.

Nov 9th – Sirsi – Yana – Gokarna

I wake up all fresh and eager, ready to hit the jungles of Yana. I’ve been reading Vishu’s account of the Yana anniv ride and hearing others talk about it for the past year and a half, so I can’t wait to experience it for myself.

The day starts off unlucky for me; what seem to be the only two cops in Sirsi have set up a check post at the exit road, and I have to pay the usual bribe because my bike’s insurance has expired.

The ride from Sirsi along the Kumta route is very scenic, with wide twisting roads set amidst thick green foliage. We soon arrive at the Yana turn-off, and Alin gives me a wicked grin and says that the scenery I’ve just witnessed was ‘only a prelude’. For the past two days, he’s been regaling me with horror stories of snakes dropping down on him and Biren from above, during their previous trip here.

As we head in, we notice a villager ride past on what looks like a TVS 50, and its tires are chock full of muck. I start to feel the butterflies but then we soon experience the track for ourselves. The track reminds me of a videogame, in that the level of difficulty seems to increase the further you go in. A broken road with loose stones turns to a path filled with shallow muck that soon turns deeper with huge ruts all over the place. My comfort level increases with each stretch I cross successfully, and as I reach a tea-stall set in an old house about 15km in, I’ve metamorphosed from a nervous bumbling wreck into a seasoned off-roader…all in my own eyes, of course.

Alin is not about to relent easily, however, and shatters all my newfound confidence with a single statement “That was the easy part”.

I soon find out he isn’t joking, as we start chatting with a bus driver (the bus parked nearby explains the ruts) who flatly says that a bike cannot not make it to the top. He had tried taking his bus up but it couldn’t make it up the steep muck-filled inclines, and he had to drive back in reverse. The tea-stall owner proves a more open-minded person; he has great confidence in the abilities of an Enfield. For some reason though, he absolutely insists that we take one bike up and leave the other down. I don’t understand the logic and am not happy about the decision, but we finally decide to heed his advice and proceed up on Alin’s bike.

After a few twists and turns, I decide that Alin’s rear seat is a little too high for my comfort and that it would probably be safer (and less embarrassing) to fall off my own bike than the back of his, so I get off and take the long walk down to fetch my bike.

What follows is a stretch of good solid off-roading. The muck has been converted into a miniature mountain landscape by the bus driver’s frantic, fruitless efforts to navigate past it, and the track itself is one steep narrow incline after another. My own efforts to cross these inclines consist of the following:

1. Keep a safe distance from Alin, just in case he decides to fall backwards.
2. Align my wheels to the path of least resistance.
3. Say a prayer to the Lord
4. Put the bike in first gear.
5. Grip the handlebar tightly and rev the bike for all she’s worth
6. Close my eyes.
7. Let go the clutch.

I guess the bike knows she’s about to be sold off and seems determined to prove her mettle. It defies logic but she doesn’t give up on me and manages to keep going up the steepest inclines while maintaining her balance, and I ultimately reach the top in one piece.

There’s a set of stairs that lead to the top, and after much puffing and panting and cursing and the usual statements about improving one’s fitness level, we finally reach the monolithic rock formation we’ve come all this way to see.

The rock looks nice. All big and black and craggy and weather worn. Personally though, I am more interested in a small white plastic tap nearby that gives off a steady flow of cool water. Alin and I lament the lack of a wide-angle lens as it proves impossible to capture the rock at such a short distance. I satisfy myself with clicking a tree that’s growing precariously up its side. Soon the place starts to fill up with tourists and we decide to head back.

I feel queasy even thinking about the downhill ride, but it proves to be easier than the way up. We find an alternate path that eliminates some of the inclines, and except for one near-vertical downhill stretch that has me forgetting all my off-roading concepts and reverting to my usual ‘hold on tight to anything that’s available and close your eyes’ routine, and Alin yelling “clutch ko chod, clutch ko chod”, I make it to the tea stall feeling very proud of myself.

Alin and I discuss the plan for the rest of the day, and he feels it would be difficult to hunt around for a suitable beach in Honavar in the dark, and proposes we go to Gokarna instead, where he knows a villager called Kittu who has access to a very secluded, beautiful beach called Paradise beach. I am personally ok with any place that has lots of salt water and very less people, so we have our second COP of the trip.

Its about 5pm now and I want to get past the remainder of the stretch before it gets dark, so we say our good-byes to the bus driver (who, at this point, is busy convincing some tourists in a red Maruti Omni that they cannot make it to the top) and leave, past the “easy” stretch and out onto the main road.

On the way we stop to see the sun set, and I am acquainted with a strange new fact about NH-206 between Sirsi and Gokarna –the Earth somehow rotates faster at that point. There can be no other explanation for the way the sun moved. It is some way up in the sky when we stop for a photo session. I take the camera out, and the sun decides to beat a hasty retreat. Alin notices and yells out urgently “Change the lens, change the lens” and I rush to do it with fumbling fingers. By the time I raise the camera to my eye, the sun is halfway down and Alin is wearing a worried expression. I struggle with the AF and MF modes for a few seconds, and when I look through the camera again, there is no sun and Alin is now wearing a perplexed expression. He remarks sardonically “it was moving at 60kph” and we proceed to Gokarna.

Our destination is a village called Belekhan, which is where Kittu resides. We reach the village without any fuss; it consists of a single lane with maybe 10-12 houses on each side. Kittu’s house is towards the end. It is too dark to see anything but I hear the sound of waves nearby which I take as a good sign.

Alin enters the house and emerges a few seconds later with a beaming Kittu in tow. He speaks Hindi fluently and gives me a warm greeting, and agrees immediately to let us park our bikes in his backyard and store our luggage in his hut. I wasn’t expecting this level of friendliness, so I’m pleasantly surprised. Kittu then says we’re to attend a nearby puja and have dinner at his house, after which he’ll take us to the beach. Alin and I look at each other with raised eyebrows…we had not bargained for this. Neither of us is remotely interested in a puja, and all we want is to get to the beach, but he is our host, at least for the present, and we cannot refuse.

Kittu’s real intentions are soon evident, though. The shop where the puja is happening is the only shop in the village that sells liquour…by a strange coincidence it turns out to be Old Monk. Kittu wastes no time in getting half a bottle (which we pay for, obviously) and invites us to a drink.

As we agree, he drops a second bombshell. His ‘adda’ of choice is an old abandoned bus stop, complete with dirty floor and walls and a man lying on a bench in a drunken stupor. My heart plummets…I absolutely do not want to do this. We immediately start trying to convince Kittu that it would be much more pleasant to drink at the beach, but he wants none of it. His protests get louder after a while and we are forced to give in. I make sure he pours me the smallest possible peg and top it up to the brim with soda…I’ll never forgive myself if I get drunk at this place. Alin does likewise, but Kittu does not fuss about with preliminaries. One overly generous dose enters his glass followed by a slight bit of soda, one huge gulp and his glass is suddenly empty…and the next moment he’s piss-drunk.

And then he starts to talk and talk, and then talk some more. Since I’m technically a stranger, I get away with the cursory nods and polite questions, but Alin, whom Kittu refers to as “Leonne, my friend” bears the brunt of this verbal attack.

After what seems like ages, our gentle persuasions get through and Kittu makes ready to leave. He surrenders his last glass to another villager, whom he generally refers to as “my friend”, and heads off to his house. As I hurriedly gulp down the remainder of my drink, I notice ‘friend’ tilt his head back and down the entire glass in one go. He then looks at me glasy-eyed and says “Finished”, holding up his glass as if to prove it. Alin and I both hurry out before the effects of his finishing become evident.

Kittu then shows his warm-heartedness again by grabbing a bag full of mussels that he had collected earlier on in the day, and leads us to the beach.

It is again too dark to see where we’re going, but he leads us unerringly on a short trek through some woods and over a hill to the beach. From what I can make out, it is basically a rocky shore, but with a small stretch of sandy beach towards the entrance. There are a few shacks on the slopes of the hill and one or two on the beach. There is a small group of what looks to be students sitting around a bonfire singing songs. Further on, I see a bigger shack right next to the sea, which is where Kittu seems to be headed. We soon find out it’s a restaurant with two huge thatched cabins and a sandy floor, and its deserted except for a small group of Europeans clustered around the entrance. One of them is playing soothing, mellifluous music on a drum of some sort. It looks like a bit like a shield that you see in the Indian mythological movies, and he has two small sticks that he strikes the drum deftly with. It gives off a tinkling sort of music that sounds heavenly!

Kittu introduces us to the owner of the restaurant, Murli. They both have a brief chat, and Murli says we can spend the night there. There are a few mattresses lying around which we can use.
Kittu wants to have another drinking session before dinner, and we oblige. In the meantime, Murli cooks the mussels and serves it along with a rice thali. The mussels are delicious…spicy and tangy. I’ve never eaten mussels before and I relish every morsel.

We finally put an end to what’s been a very long day. As the night is warm, we both decide to put our mattresses outside where there’s a gentle breeze flowing, and the soothing sound of waves crashing onto the rocks a few feet ahead. I nod off thinking about a day on the beach tomorrow.

Nov 10th – Gokarna – Bhavra Island – Long Beach

There’s something about lying on an idyllic beach in a shack, staring at the sun’s rays sparkling off the water that puts you in a trance of sorts. I wake up feeling a sense of peace and calm, and I all I want to do is sit there and stare at the sea all day…which is precisely what we do. For a bit of exercise, we walk up and down the rocks and click a few photos. As the day gets warmer, we head off for a swim. The sea is perfectly calm and tranquil with only the hint of waves, just perfect to bathe in.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve swum in the sea, so I’m pleasantly surprised to re-discover the effects of the extra buoyancy offered by the seawater. After heading some way in, I find that I can just lie on my back in a Jesus Christ position, and I float with absolutely zero effort. The feeling is just amazing. I spend ages lying on my bed of water, eyes opened or closed alternately, watching the birds fly over me. I later convey this information to Alin, and although it proves a little more difficult in shallow water, he manages it and seems even more delighted with the end result than me.

Towards afternoon Kittu pays us a visit again. Last night we had been asking him about nearby places to visit, and he offers to take us around. We spend some time deciding whether we should hire a boat from the beach, or travel by ferry and subsequently by bus. We talk to a couple of boatmen who refuse to land us anywhere, so we decide on the latter option.

As we head towards the village, however, Kittu decides to drop in on a fisherman friend of his called Sunil, and he immediately agrees to ferry us around. I am witness to the ritual of putting a boat in the water using wooden logs topped with grease as rollers, and then we head out into the sea.

I have yet another thrill when I find that the sea around Barkha Island is quite popular with the local dolphin population. We see several dolphins in groups of 2 or 3 arching their backs and leaping across the water. Bhavra Island has a very picturesque beach, and it’s completely isolated as the only way in and out is by boat. A tent and two day’s worth of food and supplies would ensure the perfect camping experience. If I ever go back to Gokarna, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Long beach, located a little further away, is just that…an extremely long beach with white sand, again fairly secluded. By this time I’m eager for another swim, so Sunil drops us off at a place where is the sea isn’t too rough. I have a good swim, then we spend some time on the beach photographing a crab that brazenly comes out of it’s hole to stare angrily at these noisy intruders who have interrupted it’s afternoon nap. We finally head back around 3pm as it’s time for Sunil to go finishing. Again we see a few dolphins breaking the water on our way back.

Kittu then invites us to his house for lunch. He had already made us promise to go the previous night, so we have no choice but to accept. We are introduced to his son, who speaks very broken English and refers to both of us as ‘Friend’. His wife has prepared their annual Diwali speciality, idlis that are cooked inside jackfruit leaves. The idlis are humongous, and although I’m fairly hungry after my swim I can barely manage to eat one. Alin cannot finish more than half of his. The idlis are accompanied by potato gravy and a sweet coconut dish (which I refuse), followed by a glass of black tea. Although part of me is wondering how much Kittu will charge for all of this when we leave, I cannot help being touched by his hospitality. Meal over, Kittu sends his son to escort us to the restaurant, and we bid our goodbyes.

The rest of the day flows by with nothing much happening. Towards evening we take another swim, and prepare to photograph the sunset. By now we have wised up to any evasive tactics the sun may deploy, and find a vantage point and adjust camera settings 20 minutes before sunset. We click a few snaps, and although the sunset looks beautiful it isn’t exactly the spectacular scene I was hoping for.

I’ve been itching all day for a few beers, but we find that selling alcohol on the beach has been strictly prohibited. Tourists and hoteliers alike are unhappy about it, but they have no choice but to obey. Murli informs us that the rule has been passed as a result of hoteliers not paying enough ‘baksheesh’ to the local police, and talks are still going on to decide the amount to be paid annually. I suggest going down to Tadadi to fetch some, and Alin agrees. Murli gives us the location of the bar (strangely, it’s right opposite the temple) and we head off.

I don’t want to spend another evening listening to Kittu’s drunken monologues, so I ask Alin to turn off his torch as we enter Belekhan. We tiptoe through the village; two silent, mysterious figures in the darkness, not stopping to talk to anyone or even acknowledge each other. Kittu’s house is silent and my heart moves up a few notches…maybe he is already asleep! But then, just when I think the coast is clear and start to breathe easy, I hear the dreaded “Hello, my friends” call behind us, and there’s Kittu hurrying towards us. He says he almost missed us, but made us out by Alin’s bright, multicolored shorts (I imagine tearing those vile shorts into little pieces, burning them to ashes and scattering the ashes over the sea). Thankfully, he already appears drunk and in no mood to accompany us to the beach. He asks me for twenty bucks to get himself another peg, I part with the money and he happily heads into the shop.

Alin and I reach Tadadi and thankfully the bar has a stock of beer. We get a couple of bottles and head back, and just as we reach the end of Belekhan, we hear another call. This time it is Sunil and his assistant Ravinder, who have just returned from their fishing trip. They are removing the fish from their nets and beckon us to join them. We head down to view the activity and end up having a pleasant chat with them. Sunil agrees to let us join him for a fishing trip the next time we’re in Gokarna. As we both start examining the fish, Sunil insists we take some with us. We know that this is his livelihood and politely refuse, but he has none of it, and his helpers start loading our bag with fish. After they’ve put about 10-12 fish in, Alin forces them to stop, we say our goodbyes and promise to meet up the next time, and head back.

Dinner is a pleasant affair tonight, accompanied as it is with fish literally fresh out of the sea and cold beer.

Nov 11th – Gokarna – Honavar – Sagar – Shimoga – Bangalore

We wake up early and prepare for the ride back. Although I’ve only been here for a day, the beach already looks like a familiar haunt and I’m reluctant to leave. We do the trek for one last time, looking over our shoulders at the beach for a few moments before going down to Belekhan.
We have been debating how much we should give Kittu and have been unable to reach any conclusion. He looks rather morose as we pack up, but on the spur of the moment Alin gives him two hundred bucks and he perks up immediately. He rushes up to bid us goodbye and promises to show us some new places when we return.

We stop at Sunil’s hut briefly, and although we cannot find him, we find Ravinder and bid him goodbye, and then we are out of there.

The trip back is quite routine, as return journeys generally tend to be. The stretch of road from Honavar to Sagar is quite beautiful, with winding ghats and greenery on both sides of the road. We stop briefly at a viewpoint after Honavar to see the river Sharavati, but get out of there quickly as it is full of tourists who are crowded up on the watchtower.

I haven’t seen Jog Falls yet, so we make a brief detour to see it, but I am hugely disappointed. I realize it was naïve of me, but I had imagined a beautiful spot set amidst the wilderness, so I’m taken aback to see it is the main tourist hub of the region. There are big iron gates manned by guards, railings and staircases to get down to the falls, and the place is full of little kids and old grandmothers, peddlers, hawkers, beggars and Japanese tourists. I have exactly one snap left in the camera, so I hurriedly click a picture of the falls and we head to Sagar.

The hotel we stop at in Sagar is another testament to the country’s love affair with cricket. There is another India-Pakistan match going on, and again every human being in sight is hooked to a television set. This time it is more irritating than amusing, and we have to be a bit harsh with the staff to get some service. We ultimately have a good lunch though…a little too good, apparently, as both of us start feeling the effects as we head to Shimoga. Alin finally stops and we take a nap by the roadside, where I am entertained by Alin’s gentle snores. I am amused to see people worriedly glance out of their car windows as they pass us. One guy on a bike even stops a few feet ahead and stares at us for a few moments before continuing his journey.

It grows dark after we cross Shimoga, and from then on the journey is just plain boring. It gets really cold at night and the wind cuts through my jacket, we start to feel sleepy and the only thing on our minds is reaching Bangalore and going to bed. I’ve led for the most part after sundown, as my bike, in one last burst of energy, is throwing forth an intense bright light. In the year and a half since I’ve acquired it, I’ve never known it to perform this well on a ride. As we reach Tumkur though, I am nearly asleep on my feet so I ask Alin to take over. Following his tail-light proves much easier, and he puts on a burst of speed that enables us to reach Yeshwantpur in record time.

All in all, it’s been a great ride, fulfilling just about all the expectations I had, and then some. It feels good to have explored a part of Karnataka that I’ve never seen before, and to a lesser extent, to finally have one decent breakdown free ride under my belt! This is also my first real ride with Alin after the ‘inaugural’ Hampi ride, and he’s been good fun to ride with.

Alin says it all in his final words to me “Successful ride types!”

Trip to Kundadri

2007-07-17T19:41:00.000+05:30

A narrow winding road passing through lush green forests. The trees arch across overhead on either side to form a natural canopy, the ground below covered by twigs and fallen leaves. The silence broken only by the gentle patter of rain, the singing of a thousand crickets and the thump of a Bullet, the idyllic scenery broken only by glimpses of a fellow rider far ahead in the distance – There are few experiences more soothing to a man’s soul.

The Bare Essentials

Destination – Kundadri Betta, in the Shimoga district of Karnataka

Daywise Breakup of the ride –

Day 1: Bangalore – Tumkur – Arasikere – Shimoga – Thirtahalli
Day 2: Thirtahalli – Kundadri Betta – Agumbe – Sringeri – Kuppalli – Koppa
Day 3: Koppa – Chickmaglur – Kemmangundi – Birur – Tiptur – Tumkur – Bangalore

Distance covered – Approx 1000 km

Memories stored – Innumerable

Day 1 - The Onward Ride

The preparations started as with most other rides. Last minute tuning of the bike, calls and e-mails to one another discussing spares and meet times, buying film rolls and batteries for the cameras etc. What was different this time though, was a palpable lack of excitement in the air. Somehow everything seemed mundane, mechanical. I’m not sure why, maybe it was because I was disillusioned by my boring city life, or maybe it was because I kept viewing this as ‘only’ a weekend ride and did not have too many expectations. Nevertheless, finished my packing and went to bed late at night, followed by a sound sleep, again a contrast to when the excitement of a ride normally deprives me of any sleep the night before.

There’s NOTHING that can rob you of excitement on the morning of a ride, however, and I awoke a few hours later all fresh and eager and raring to go. Met up with the guys at 6.30am near the HP petrol pump at Yeshwantpur station and proceeded along the Tumkur highway, after refueling at Shell.

The first incident happened a few kilometers later when on a slight incline, I perceived the dreaded ‘clunk’ from my bike instead of the sweet ‘thump’. The bike then refused to obey any of my commands and coasted to a halt. My worst fears were confirmed when the kickstart lever refused to budge an inch. I absolutely could not believe I had a seized engine (at a speed of about 70) after spending a fortune on rebuilding the engine and completing 3000+ km of running in. My mood sunk to an all-time low and if someone had given me a flaming match then, I would have gladly tossed it into my petrol tank and watch the whole thing blow up into smithereens. All I wanted to do was take a U-Turn and head back to Bangalore. Da Sanjuz and Biju convinced me otherwise however, and after a 5-10 minute break Sanju reported that the kickstart lever had consented to move again. I kicked the lever tremulously, and imagine my joy when she started up obediently without the hint of a ‘clunk’! My heart leapt up to its usual place beneath the left rib cage, the clouds parted, the sun shone through and all was right with the world. After the mandatory comments about junking the bike, selling it for scrap iron etc etc, we continued on at a cautious pace.

We stopped for breakfast at Tumkur, when Sanju made me volunteer to take charge of the group kitty. A quick thought of making a run for it with the cash flashed through my mind, only to disappear once I realized I had the slowest bike that took the longest time to start (This was confirmed to be a wise decision later, when I discovered that some of my fellow 60kphers, despite their charming looks, had colorful pasts and were associated with nefarious knife-wielding, autorickshaw commandeering goons who would not think twice about squishing a little fellow like me for a few thousand bucks). The only other noteworthy result of this event was that the guys started referring to me as ‘kitty’ instead of ‘kauk’. We called Vishu to update him on the status, and after getting a reassuring reply about escaped prisoners running amok in Tumkur, we continued on our way.

The rest of the ride was fairly routine. Miles and miles of boring highway that had us wishing we had taken the train to Shimoga. Not a hint of rain either. Finally, at Arasikere, a few kilometers before Shimoga, we spied dark clouds and decided to don our rain gear. As if on cue, the skies opened up and we had the first glimpse of the rain that was to be our constant companion for the next 3 days.

Reached Shimoga at about 2.30pm, and after a quick conference between road captain Srinidhi and veterans Sanju and Biju, we decided to head to the town for lunch and then take the bypass towards Thirtahalli. Stopped at a bar & restaurant for lunch, where the question was raised about whether or not to have a small drink. After some debate, we decided it would be in our best interest not to drink, after all. We then celebrated the decision by ordering a beer with our lunch that we split between us. Lunch over, we proceeded towards Thirtahalli.

Somewhere after this was where the scenery took a drastic, unexpected change for the better. The highway gave way to interior roads, the plains gave way to forests as we started a gentle climb to Thirtahalli. I’ve done a couple of forest rides before, but never during monsoons and the difference was clearly visible. At times it felt like traveling through a dark green tunnel! Our tiredness of a few hours ago was completely gone, and I guess the scenery also brought out the dormant videographer in Sanju. He started to ride ahead and scout for ideal locations so he could film the rest of us riding through…a pattern that was to continue through the ride.

While stopping for a break enroute, we realized there was no point riding late and reaching Kundadri the same day. It would more prudent to stop somewhere nearby and hit Kundadri next morning, when we’d be fresh and could appreciate the scenic splendour better. After checking a nearby resort that was insanely expensive, we reached Thirtahalli and checked in to a single room at a local lodge, despite Biju’s cravings for more comfortable quarters (“atleast 4 and a half stars” was his constant outcry). One interesting incident as we parked the bikes was locals milling in front of the lodge to watch us. Apparently there was a film shooting happening in the locality and everyone wanted to know if we were stunt men from the film!

The preliminaries completed, we got down to a serious OM session. Except for Sanjay “Siaphino” Sharma who doesn’t drink. But then nobody’s perfect, and I’m hoping we can cure him of this habit shortly. Biju and Srinidhi entertained us with horror stories of their activities during childhood and college (had they met in college, I’m sure one of them would have killed or seriously injured the other – a fact they both readily accepted). The night wore on, we were soon waist deep in OM, SSS was knee deep in Coke and we decided to hit the sack.

Day 2 – Prowling around Kundadri

I’m on the…top of the world lookin’…down on creation…
And the only explanation I can find…

We started the day with a heavenly breakfast at a local restaurant opposite our lodge. Idlies with ‘buns’ (a local dish a bit like a sweetish square pakoda), Kesari Bhat and Uppitu, among others. Now I’ve eaten most of these somewhere or the other in Bangalore, but NEVER had they tasted so good. Yum!!

First destination for the day – Kundadri Betta. This is a giant monolithic rock formation somewhere between Thirtahalli and Agumbe. Most websites I read referred to it as an ideal place for trekking, with winding roads leading to the top if you wanted to drive there.

The scenery of the day before continued in all its splendour as we rode on. Forests gave way to countryside, vast green fields on either side of the road with thick fringes of moss bordering the road, cottages with stone fences, and the rain continuing to pour down from above. After a while, it was almost like we reached a subconscious decision that we could not just ride on neglecting the view any further, and stopped for a break. Out came the cameras in spite of the rain, and we started clicking. Sanju went off into the fields in search of an ideal shot, and I followed a while later, jumping in and out of ankle deep water in the fields. I kind of felt like I was reliving a second childhood!

We continued on, and soon reached Kundadri Betta, where the hairpin bends began. And what bends they were! I don’t think I’ve ever seen steeper ones. Knowing the limitations of my bike in climbing inclines, I said a silent prayer and proceeded up, heart in mouth. The bike wheezed, groaned, puffed, panted and made several other assorted sounds while I was counting the seconds to when she would stall, sending me plummeting to my death…but I suppose I should have had more faith in her. I had to do the whole stretch in first gear but she pulled me through without a scratch. Both Sanjus followed me up while Biju and Srinidhi were already at the top.

There’s a old dilapidated house at the top, and Sanju immediately rushed off to see if we could camp there for the night, but a leaky roof caused it to be filled with water, making it incapable of hosting a prolonged stay. We spent several minutes there clicking snaps while two or three carloads of tourists climbed up steps leading from there to the actual top of the hill.

We soon ascended to the top ourselves, to be greeted by strong winds and swirling clouds passing through us at waist level. There’s an old temple at the top, with a pillar and a tank in the front, but the best part for me was beyond the temple.

Something in the wind has learned my name…
And it’s telling me that things are not the same…

As I walked around the temple, I found the rock face abruptly going down in a smooth curve. And all around it, there was a huge sea of swirling clouds, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was literally like we had reached the end of the world…nothing ahead of us but dense white mist, obscuring everything but the rock face a few feet ahead. At times, through small gaps in the mist, we could make out scenic vistas. And the wind…a strong, buffeting wind…almost like it had a will of its own, intent on pushing me backwards, away from the edge.

All I wanted to do was keep standing there. It’s at times like these that one feels an overwhelming sense of appreciation for the magnificence of nature. There’s no air-conditioner that can come close to producing the feeling of moist cold that you experience…no Man-made structure…not the Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower or whatever…that can come close to matching the simple beauty of the place.

In the leaves on the trees and the touch of the breeze,
There’s a pleasin’ sense of happiness for me.

We couldn’t obviously stay there forever, though, and after some time headed back. In all honesty, I was dreading the thought of going down those steep bends (my front brake had stopped working by that time) but I figured I could make it in first gear. I turned the bike around and was approaching the slope, when just about 2 feet away from it I felt the front forks seemed extremely tight and I couldn’t move the handle too much. Then I realized with a shock that I had forgotten to remove the handle lock (It’s like a pathological disease…this forgetfulness of mine. I once rode 2 km to a grocery shop, then forgot the bike there and walked back all the way, and nearly lodged a police complaint later that evening when I couldn’t find the bike at home). Shamefacedly removed the lock under Biju’s cold glare, and proceeded down…and reached the bottom in one piece with much more ease than I had imagined.

Our next destination was Agumbe, about 12km away from Thirtahalli. RC Srinidhi had informed us that there was some firing there some days ago…either naxalites had killed some people or the other way around…I forget which. So it wasn’t surprising to see a police checkpost there. They approached us with some hostility, but with RC Srinidhi talking to one in Kannada and Biju talking to the other in Malayalam, they soon thawed and let us pass with friendly smiles.

The ride down Agumbe was superb…I’m not going to wax poetic about the scenery since I’m saving that for Kemmangundi, our final destination…but it was a ride down a hill with hairpin bends, lots of mist and even more greenery. After going down Agumbe we reached a place called Someshwara where we stopped for lunch.

That was one of the best lunches I’ve had. There’s a local dish called ‘Neeru Dosai’, a dosa made of rice that’s a delicacy of sorts in Bangalore…meaning you find it in 5 star hotel menus with 4 line descriptions beneath it, for which you pay exorbitant prices. The waiter nonchalantly mentioned it was available…and then we proceeded to transfer the contents of his kitchen to our stomachs. We kept stacking the plates up as we ate so we could get shots of how much we ate…and hopefully those snaps will come out well. The bill came to just 50 bucks a head.

When we couldn’t stuff ourselves any further, we reluctantly headed out to the next destination, Kupalli. The ride was back up through Agumbe, then take a deviation to Kupalli.

It was while on that ride, that my bike was enchanted by the sight of Sanjay “Siaphino” Sharma’s brand new TB ahead of her (maybe she wanted to Mate with it, who knows). At any rate, she got very horny and started to honk continuously. That startled me so much that I stopped right there, in the middle of the road on a curve. After meekly listening to Biju’s reprimand for the same, I tried to correct it but in vain. After every few minutes she would start honking incessantly. Finally we stopped again and Sanju disconnected the wire from the horn, thus shutting her up permanently.

After taking a brief deviation to Sringeri (there’s an ancient temple there, by the banks of the river Tunga) we reached Kupalli. Kupalli is home to Kuvempu, one of the greatest Kannada literary figures of all time. His old house, built in the local style resembling a Chinese Pagoda, with multiple sloping mud roofs, has been completely renovated and converted into a museum. It houses his manuscripts, books and awards as well as common household implements of the old days. (I had seen all this during my earlier visit to Shimoga last year). The museum was closed by the time we reached, however, so we proceeded to some nearby rocks where he apparently did a lot of his writing.

This place probably bears India’s closest resemblance to Stonehenge of England. The government set up the stone structures after Kuvempu’s death (as narrated to me by RC Srinidhi). Some distance away, there’s a series of stones set in circular shape where (I guess) Kuvempu used to lecture his disciples or something. The guys saw this as a wonderful opportunity to pull my leg and made me sit there for ages while they pretended to click my snap. Dense evergreen forests surround this whole place.

Sightseeing for the day done, we decided to head to Koppa to spend the night. Found 2 rooms in a decent lodge there, and after changing into dry clothes, we got down to the very serious business of OM. What followed was long talks into the night with a frankness that only comes with…oh well, you all know what I’m talking about. But it did serve to reaffirm my belief that a ride is the best place to get to really know people and cement bonds. This was followed by impromptu birthday celebrations for Srinidhi…cake-cutting with a screwdriver and the works…unfortunately we all forgot the birthday bumps. The celebrations over, Sanjay and I headed to our room for some much-needed shut-eye.

Day 3 – Travelling through a picture postcard

It seemed like the alarm rang just moments after I closed my eyes. Awoke groggily to find I did not have any dry clothes left – water had seeped in through the cramster and into my only spare T-shirt. I didn’t really care since it was going to get wet anyway. We headed downstairs to another breakfast of Neeru Dosai, only to straightaway find the difference in a commercial town. The dosa wasn’t half as good as the previous day’s, and I struggled to get just one down. I found out that sometime in the night (or morning) the guys had decided to chuck our earlier plan of visiting Bhadra reservoir and head straight to Kemmangundi.

We headed out, through the town of Chikmanglur and towards Kemmangundi. After two days spent amidst nature, I found Chikmaglur to be a horrible place…dusty and full of traffic…and was glad when we got out again. We took a brief break at the foot of Kemmangundi, where Sanju and Biju (who had been there earlier) warned us that the road would get fairly bad ahead. The intent then was to not to take too many breaks going forward as we had planned to reach Bangalore by 6pm. However we found ourselves ‘forced’ to take a short break a few kilometers ahead to photograph the scenery…that included several bats hanging from a distant rocky ledge. The rain finally let up then so we could take out our cameras without any worries. A kilometer or two ahead, we took another ‘forced’ break for yet another photography session. That was incidentally the spot where Sanju, Biju, Vishu and Venky had stopped during an earlier visit to Kemmangundi.

I walked out a few steps to look down the hill slope, and was stunned to see the best vista I had seen in a long time. I’m still struggling to place either that moment, or the time atop Kundadri Betta as my defining moments of the trip. It was like a huge grassy rolling landscape, sloping downards, with a thick bunch of trees clustered around the center…a startling contrast between light and dark green…but forget it, there’s no way I can convey in words the beauty that lay before me…I’m just hoping some of the snaps can capture it properly.

After we had taken in enough of the scenery, we continued on, only to take yet another stop near the peak, where both Sanjus had taken their bikes off the road and to the edge of the peak. We all parked our bikes there for the line-up shot, and there we finally decided there was no point rushing through this place. The plan of reaching Bangalore by 6pm was thrown out the window and we decided to spend as much time there as possible.

After several shots, including some taken after we climbed up the hill to get a birds eye view of the bikes and the scenery, we finally moved on. We soon crossed the hill and rode down the other side. What followed was some good off-roading through badly broken roads and slush (some of it had me rather nervous as it looked very similar to the snow at Uttaranchal where I fell all over the place…except that it was brown instead of white) some of it past small roadside waterfalls. There was one particularly bad (good!) stretch where I was sure I’d fall off…(Biju and Sanjay had already stopped ahead and were waiting by roadside, ready to help me up)…but I managed it and rode on triumphantly. Sanjay followed me shortly and we took a break ahead to wait for the rest of them to catch up.

It was there that I saw my final stretch of beautiful landscape…quite literally like a life-size painting in green…tall wide trees, trunks partly covered in moss, bordering both sides of the road, which also looked a bit green due to the moss fallen onto it. The guys took snaps while I shook my head disbelievingly, and then we continued on. We took a final break in the hills, while I scampered around in some nearby green fields (which would make a great camping ground. Srinidhi had apparently camped there earlier…lucky dog!) and then slowly the hills started to give way to highway again, and I knew our trip had finally ended.

What was still left though, was the dreary part of riding back to Bangalore. We stopped at a roadside dhaba just after Birur at 5pm for a late lunch. The dhaba was, incidentally, called NASA Dhaba Hotel. (Earlier on in the ride, we had crossed a Havard Public School and a place called Narve). While we were packing up after lunch, we had an interesting conversation with a local, which went something like this:

Villager: Are these rented bikes?
Biju: No, they’re our own bikes.

Villager: So will you sell them once you get back?
Biju: No, no, they’re our own bikes. We won’t sell them.

Villager: KA-05 registration…where is that?
Biju: Bangalore.

Villager: So where are you guys from?
Biju: Bangalore.

Villager: Where are you going?
Biju: Bangalore.

Villager: Where are you coming from?
Me: Bangalore.

We soon got on the highway again, and it started growing dark. After we crossed Tiptur it had gotten completely dark and Sanju & Biju gave us the lowdown on night-riding in a group. Srinidhi did his final bit of road captaincy by leading the ride for the most part (although Biju took over towards the end). We touched speeds of 80-ish and I was worried my engine would seize again, but surprisingly it behaved remarkably well. After a few minutes I started thoroughly enjoying the ride…5 headlights in a row…4 steady bright white lights and my own yellow flickering orb of a light (which caused Biju much amusement as he looked at me in the rearview mirror), moving at high speeds which made me remember Gaurav’s ‘Poetry at high speeds’ writeup. By the way, this ride has convinced me that I can now officially claim the ‘dimmest headlight award’ from GR. It wasn’t really a problem though, as the flaming cross on Biju’s riding jacket cast a surreal white glow on the road, lighting up the surroundings for miles around.

Towards the end, my bike gave me the final set of troubles when the battery conked off completely. This coupled with its tendency to switch off whenever I reduced speed to a large extent (fiddling with the idle screw didn’t seem to make a difference) meant I had to spend ages kicking the bike each time we came across a speed breaker. But we still made decent time and reached Nelamangla by around 11pm. A final tea break where we said our tearful goodbyes, a promise to meet soon for another round of drinks, one final dash towards our respective homes, a final breakdown for me where I sat 15 min by the road waiting for the battery to charge up, and the ride was officially over.

Sitting in office now completing this write-up (glancing nervously over my shoulder in case the boss comes around), I can’t help wonder if it was only a weekend I spent at Kundadri. It doesn’t seem possible that I’ve seen so much, experienced so much in so short a span of time. But then I guess good things do come in small packages.

For now, it’s back to my routine life. My 9 to 6 job, navigating through Bangalore traffic twice a day and sitting in a cubicle all day. But I guess every cloud does have a silver lining.

And the silver lining for me – August 15th, Dangs, here I come!!

A Tale of Courage

2007-06-29T19:58:00.000+05:30

Man, as a species, always seems to have had a fascination for quests. History and fiction both, are replete with stories of men boldly venturing out into the great unknown and facing untold dangers in search of the one great thing - be it an artifact, a lost land or even a woman - that would soothe their souls, quell their fears and lift their hearts. From King Arthur's (and Tom Hanks', in more recent times) quest for the Holy Grail and the Jews quest for the Promised Land, to Frodo's quest for Mordor and Jack Sparrow's for Davy Jones' Locker, these are tales that tell of great courage, valiance and a reckless defiance of the greatest odds, that serve to highlight the steely resolve and indomitable spirit of Man.

All of these pale, however, in comarison to My Quest For Holy Matrimony.

The start of very quest happens with a wizened old mentor instilling the germ of an idea into the dashing young hero's mind, which until that precise moment is happily immersed in blissful thoughts with no cares in the world. In this particular case, there were two wizened old mentors, a man and woman of great age and wisdom, who had long since discarded their earthly names and chose to be addressed only by the titles of Dad and Mom. The dashing young hero was for a long time loth to listen to their counsel and wished to carry on with his carefree bachelor life. The wizened mentors were not easily budged however, and finally persuaded the youngling to comply by divining the will of Nature through ominous signs like bulging bellies, balding heads and a disturbing closeness to the numeral 30.

And how exactly did the prodigious protagonist embark on this journey, you ask, with neither noble steed nor trusty aide? Oh, but he had, he had both! A divine portal he had, effective as the best crystal ball (and a lot more two-dimensional) in locating fair maidens far and wide, and bringing them right before his eyes. And with the wizened mentors aiding in interpreting the mysterious language of the portal, what more could he want?

So it was that the flamboyant phenom succeeded in speaking to the First Fair Maiden. An old acquaintance she was, having studied in the same university as the hero himself, and therefore well-known to him. She had in fact, unbeknowningstly stolen his heart for a few brief moments when he first laid his eyes on her, whereupon he had unhesitatingly bestowed upon her the epithet of 'Beacon of Light'. (This simple act of the heart was to cause him much embarassment later, as certain friends would revel in poking him in the ribs and switching on light bulbs whenever she passed by). Sadly though,this knowledge remained a one-way stream. Whether it was because the flamboyant phenom was a bit of a jerk when it came to chatting up women, or because he had the implicit wisdom not to attach much importance to crushes on first sight, is a matter of some debate. Anyways, this first attempt did not attempt to much, on the whole. The two parties in question spoke a couple of times, mailed each other a couple times more, and thereafter contact fizzled out completely.

Our hero, however, had this particularly endearing quality of not dwelling too much on past affairs, and soon moved on with life, this episode relegated to the cobwebby attic of his mind. It was several months later that the Divine Portal revealed the face of the Second Fair Maiden, and she was so much closer to the Leading Man. (Literally, I mean...she lived in the same city that he had taken up residence in). With the wizened mentors taking up the lead in establishing initial contact, a meeting was soon arranged between the two parties.

Now, our indefatigable Iyer had little foreknowledge of formal meetings of this sort. He had heard word though, that the common practice was to ask queries like "What are your hobbies" and "What is your educational background" right after the Maiden served him tea on a tray. Armed with this priceless information, our young hero set off to the Maiden's house for his first ever 'Ladki Dekhna' session.

What our hero's astute young mind was not prepared for, however, was that he had to run the gauntlet before he even had the chance to lay eyes on the Fair Maiden. "Ha! A test of will, is it?" thought he, and prepared to hold conversation with a stern-faced father, stern-faced brother and stern-faced mother (no doubt those of the Maiden, he quickly decided) who silently materialized before him in the order mentioned above.

And so he began. And how the words flowed! Many different things he talked of, from Bullet motorcycles and ponytailed riders, to trips along NH7 and NH48, to Enfield mechanics and Enfield showrooms, and ended with a particularly indepth discourse on the metallurgy and heating characteristics of the Enfield piston (in the process touching upon the seizure recovery patterns of Bullet vs Yamaha motorcycles).

Then the Maiden came and served him tea on a tray. Quick as a flash, our charming hero took his cue to shoot out "So what is your hobbies and what are your educational backgrounds?"

It was while ruminating about these events many moons later, that our marvel of Mankind realized that the frequent furtive glances that the mother and father had given each other may just have been of ones of fear, not appreciation, and that the look of solemn hopefulness he saw on the Maiden's face as he took his leave was actually one of relief barely contained.

So time rolled on, with the cobwebby attic getting more and more crowded, when the Divine Portal suddenly sprang to life and revealed the face of the Third Fair Maiden. She was no ordinary maiden either, but One Who Had Travelled The Seven Seas. Ah, what a stoke of luck, thought He Who Had Drunk Mother's Milk, and thus proceeded to engage in a long and fruitful telephone conversation with her.

Now it so chanced that shortly after, our stupendous stalwart had to visit her city of residence on business. Quickly remembering the prior fruitful conversation, he cunningly made use of the telephone again to arrange a meeting with her, taking care this time not to utter the words "Bullet", "Enfield", "Hobbies" or "Educational Backgrounds" in his conversation. Well, it worked beyond measure, and before you know it, there they were, the two of them, sipping a Capuccino and a Cafe Latte at the nearest Barista. To cut a long story short, they talked of many many things, many many people, many many animals and many many places, and ultimately took pleasant leave of each other.

The events that transpired after this are deep, dark and disturbing. Be warned that they are not for the faint of heart!

'Twas a dark and silent night, with nary a star on the sky. An inky blackness slowly descended upon the earth, surrounding the surroundings like a heavy cloak and choking the very breath out of the world. 'Twas not a night for merriment, but one for dark and foreboding thoughts and checking of emails. It was while the stupendous stalwart was involved in the latter, that the darkness was shattered by a shard of lightning. The sudden flash of light revealed a face, not so much human but that of a pale white ghost (!!), with the life blood seemingly sucked out of it! But what is this?? Subsequent investigation reveals that the ghostly face belonged to none other than our beloved hero, caught in a moment of disbelief when he espied an email from She Who Crossed Seven Seas stating that she was not, after all, interested in taking things forward.

"Well, that's another one for the attic", thought He Who Thinks He Suffers From Mild Form Of Korsakoff's Syndrome. And thus, dear readers, did life continue for our hero, with the trials and travails that are but a part of this wordly materialistic life that engulfs all mortals in the universe.

But what happens next? Does the story have a happy ending, do I hear you ask? Alas, dear reader, that I doth not know yet. The hand of fate playeth in mysterious ways. And more importantly, I spy the boss cometh towards my room, which forceth me to stop right here and drag myself back to the foul confines of reality.

But really...what does happen next? Does our hero endure? Does he finally taste the sweet fruit of success? And what other tricks do the wizened mentors have up their sleeves? What will destiny throw in the path of our hapless hero, valiantly struggling against forces that would overwhelm most mortal men? To find out, keep watching this space for the spellbinding sequel - "A Tale of Courage - The Two Towering Maidens"

Phantoms in the brain

2007-05-15T14:42:00.000+05:30

A man walks in to a doctor's office in deep pain. His problem - his left hand is clenched tight and is seemingly clamped in that position. Its not just a normal closed fist either, the fingers are curled up so tight that his fingernails have dug halfway into his palm, causing him unbearable, excruciating pain, pain that you or I could never normally experience. He's at his wits end because nobody he's seen so far has been able to alleviate this condition...his fist simply cannot be unclenched, even the slightest bit. The pain cannot be numbed.

So why is it that painkillers or medication, or even surgery doesn't help? Because, bizzare as it sounds, he does not have a left arm! He only developed this condition after his entire left arm was amputated several months ago. Now wait a minute, this is nuts, you think? Pain in an arm that doesn't exist? A clear sensation of a closed fist biting into a non-existent palm? But no, the patient isn't crazy. These are, apparently, symptoms of a medical condition called Phantom limbs which results from amputation of a limb. Not widely known but at the same time not uncommon among amputees. But how are they created? How can you so clearly 'sense' an arm that isn't there? And how does one get rid of them? I suppose you've heard the phrase "Its all in the mind" often enough. But I doubt if anyone has ever really realised the truth of it. It really is, ALL in the mind. Everything we are, and are not. Not just our thoughts, our emotions, our personalities, not even just our physical bodies, but the world we live in. It's all seemingly just an image created by our mind. And I'm not talking philosophy here.

Phantoms in the brain, authored by Indian neuroscientist V.S.Ramachandran and writer Sandra Blakeslee, is a one of its kind book, not only for its subject but also for its written style. As you turn the pages, Ramachandran seems to take you by the hand and give you a guided museum tour of the human brain. Actually, its more like a tour of a factory, as he takes you through various aspects of humanity like our perception, emotions, the way we see things, even our beliefs on God, and attempts to describe the various pulleys and levers in the brain that make all of this possible. That make us, essentially, who we are. The writing is simple enough for the most part, almost seems like a humorous dinner-table conversation at times, but leaves you with a vast appreciation and a sense of wonder about the everyday things you take for granted. Sure, there's a fair bit of anatomy to be learnt, and some medical terms that need getting used to. But again the presentation, which includes illustrations of the brain where required, helps you learn without giving the feel of a medical textbook.

As Ramachandran himself says, the study of the human brain, unlike most other forms of science, has not evolved to the point where we know exactly how things work or even create 'grand unified theories' of its working. This is probably what fascinates me the most about it. That there's something still left today where the words disovery and exploration actually mean something and are not relegated to the history books. Where experimentation and investigation hold more value than research. And there's something decidedly Sherlock Holmes-ish about the way Ramachandran studies patients with various deficits and anomalies and uses this knowledge to propose theories about...or deduce, rather...the functioning of various parts of the brain. What's also very interesting is his penchant to use simple everyday stuff - mirrors, cardboard boxes and pencil sketches among others - to diagnose (and cure in some cases) these bizzare ailments. And in the process, you cannot help but marvel at the physical mechanisms that translate into our highly complex understanding of, and interaction with, the world around us. To help you relate, here's a few examples from the book:

Why is it you give a spontaneous, genuine smile the moment you see an old friend, but cannot produce the same smile when a stranger asks you to do it deliberately?

There's a disorder that prevents a person from doing simple arithmetic while yet retaining an understanding of complex concepts like unity, infinity and the numerical digit system. Another deficit caused by this disorder is the inability to correctly identify or name the fingers of a hand. Given this, is it sheer coincidence that we all learn to count with our fingers as kids?

When shown two circles of nearly equal sizes, more often than not you would not be able to decide straightaway which one is bigger. But try to grasp the circles, and your fingers will automatically align to the edges of the circles without erring. So how do your fingers know the right size, when 'you' do not? This would then possibly lead you to wonder about consciousness itself, about how much the 'you' in you really controls your interactions with the world.

He also makes an interesting blend of physiology and psychology while trying to explain uniquely human concepts like denial and repression, and talks about a branch of study called evolutionary psychology while attempting to explain how laughter evolved, and the much more interesting topic of "why do gentlemen prefer blondes?"

However, much as I enjoyed reading this book, there are some downsides too, as with most things in life. One is that this isn't really a book you can finish in one sitting. Unless you have a hell of lot more perseverance...and much better memory...than I do. You'd probably read a few chapters, ponder about them for a while, then just when you think you have it all, forget some technical concept that makes something possible and end up re-reading the whole chapter all over again. So in a way this is a book you would need to keep coming back to. Another irritant for me is his tendency to quote poetry and verse...Shakespeare and the Bhagavad Gita, among others...to illustrate his points. So I end up spending so much time understanding the poetry that I forget why he quoted it in the first place. There's also a chapter or two where he tends to go deep into philosophy. Reminds me of the oft-repeated quote of Dr. Watson, about the world losing out on a first-rate violinist and chemist when Sherlock Holmes decided to get into the detective business. Another issue...not really a downside, actually...is that he at times propounds theories that sound fairly fantastic...completely out of the box. So while you marvel at his ingenuity, you also can't help a feeling of incredulity about whether this is really how stuff works.

But apart from these minor issues, something I thoroughly enjoy reading. And a book I'm proud to have in my bookshelf. Oh, and apart from all of the above, it makes for great conversation at parties or get-togethers. Even had friends look up at me in awe after I'd finished one of my discourses on the brain and go "Wow, you're so knowledgable!". So in a way, this has done more for my self-esteem than all those Chicken Soup books. Which I've never read, by the way. There you have it...denial in a nutshell! Caused, no doubt, by the parietal lobe of the left hemisphere of my brain. But ignore me, and go read the book. I'm sure you'll find it far more interesting! :-)

Teenage Tales II - Learning To Swim

2007-02-17T17:26:00.001+05:30

What I really want to do at this point is pen an outstanding composition, something that'll have me marvelling at my own talent - a brilliantly refreshing, thought-provoking, original piece of text that'll leave my readers gasping for more.

But that's way too much work, so I'm just writing a sequel instead.

Therefore, here's presenting...Teenage Tales - II, Learning To Swim! (To see how it all began, click here for my original Teenage Tales story)

Oh, wait...in the interests of accuracy, I guess this is actually a prequel, because I'm almost sure I learnt swimming before I learnt riding. Hmmm...no wonder I always flunked my history exams. But anyways...enough with the mindless drivel, and on to the narrative!

It all started when I was a very little kid...a tiny schoolboy...about 9 or 10 years of age. A tender loving boy who would look up at the world around him with wide eyed innocence and greet each new day with a sunny smile. Why someone would want to take this gentle child of nature and drag him, kicking and screaming, to Hotel Deccan Continental and toss him into the savage, untamed waters of the swimming pool there is beyond me. Who knows, maybe it builds character.

To help you relate, here's a 'before' pic. Me smiling happily, surrounded by loving classmates.

And here's me in the swimming pool, features grotesquely distorted due to sheer terror.

One of the main contributors to this ghastly event was my swimming coach. Again, my disinclination for history results in my forgetting his name, so lets call him, say, Mogambo. Purely for the sake of convenience.

Incidentally, Mogambo had a dad who was also a swimming coach at the same place. Mogambo Sr. was a gentle old man whose lessons consisted primarily of having kids sit by the pool, hold hands and splash their feet in the water. However, as fate would have it (I'm sure my parents gave fate a quick nudge or two, but haven't been able to find any conclusive evidence so far) I was deemed unworthy of his instruction and was assigned to Mogambo Jr, a man far truer to his name. Here's pics of the father-son duo...I'm sure you'll note the family resemblance.

Far left - Mogambo Sr.
Center - Mogambo Jr. (Fully clothed)
Far right - Mogambo Jr. (In swimsuit and boots)

The first lesson that Mogambo tried to teach me was to kick my legs. I was to stand in the water, push back and kick my legs with smooth scissor strokes and they would magically rise until they were on the surface of the water. Well, sounds easy but it didn't work. The harder I kicked, the harder my toes would strike the ground. Took me seven whole days to get my feet off the ground, and that was probably only to due to the extra buoyancy offered by my swollen toes.

Inspired by my success, Mogambo then took me to step 2 - swimming unaided in the deep end. There was, of course, an intermediary period of one day where he showed me how to move my hands, which I did with so much enthusiasm that everyone within 5 feet of the pool was soaking wet.

So it was that I was standing, trembling by the deep end on day 9, eyeing the water with much trepidation. Mogambo gave me a quick word of advice "Just beat your legs and hands all at the same time" and encouraged me into the water with a quick shove. What followed next was the most singularly horrible experience of my childhood. I would trash about for a few moments and then sink like a rock. Mogambo would grab me, raise my head above the surface and shove me a few feet further...and the process repeated till I reached the other end. To his credit, he did offer some useful words of advice while shoving me around, like "keep your mouth closed when you're drowning".

Perhaps it was the natural resilience of childhood, but this crude method actually worked. My understanding of swimming progressed with each passing day. And a week later, I fully understood that if I took a running leap into the water instead of waiting to be shoved, I would cover half the breadth of the pool or more before landing, which would consequently ease my struggles considerably. And no one would be the wiser. And it worked! I was happy, my parents were thrilled with my enthusiasm, and Mogambo didn't quite know what to make of it.

He realized eventually, of course, and came up with a cunning scheme to foil my well laid out plans, namely making me swim full lengths. I was flabbergasted, needless to say. A 10 year old kid cannot leap 15 metres in the air, unless he's Spiderman or Anju Bobby George. I was neither.

So it was that my swimming instructions finally commenced in earnest. Its not like I gave in easily, I tried techniques like walking along the edge before jumping in, then swimming along the edge so I could grab the railings etc, but dad took to patrolling one end of the pool and Mogambo the other, thus effectively fencing me in the middle.

To cut a long story short, this continued for about 3 months...the entire duration of my summer vacations. I went back to school that year a broken kid who shuddered at the very thought of summer vacations. I didn't know it then, but there was a lot of shuddering left in my destiny.

Each year, my eyes were opened to increasingly horrifying horrors like learning to dive...a process that caused my stomach untold misery. I still haven't mastered this process, by the way. Then there was Mogambo's wicked twisted idea of a game, where he'd drop a coin in the water and we'd have to dive down to retrieve it. What was the point I'll never know...bursting lungs, noses and eardrums and we never even got to keep the damned coin. Then there were the races...where I'd move my arms and legs around in a frenzy, splashing so much water I couldn't even see where I was going, and when I was out of breath and finally stopped, I'd find myself only a third of the way down, and somehow facing the starting point.

Well, my trials and tribulations continued, but something did seep through my skull in the process and today I can proudly say that I am fairly proficient in the art of swimming. I have even gone so far as to enjoy it in limited measure. Apart from the fact that I can't dive, my skill at the races has increased to the point where I can actually reach the end only a few seconds behind the others. And of course, the best benefit is that swimming has done wonders to my physique. All those years of landing on my tummy have given it a healthy ribbed look, and I guess its natural that my arms and legs and torso have developed increased musculature to enable me keep up all the splashing.

Don't believe me? Here, see for yourself.

Me wearing a US cap during a recent swimming session.

Well, that's all for now, folks! Until my next post...keep it real ;-)

A series of unfortunate events

2007-01-31T00:10:00.000+05:30

Prediction - This will probably be my most boring post ever. Rather indicative of my life at the moment, actually. You ever have that feeling you're on a perpetual treadmill? You're not actually sitting idle, literally, you do the things that allow you to lead a mechanical sort of existence, and you get absorbed in them for a while, but then you glance up and look around you and notice you're at the exact same place you were last week, last year, your whole life and everything around you is exactly the same as it has ever been. And you ponder about it for a while and get back on the treadmill with increased gusto until you stop for your next breather and realize you still haven't moved an inch.

An idle mind is the devil's workshop, they say. The mind is a muscle, they say, exercise it or you'll lose it, they say. Kind of contradictory, don't you think? Unless, of course, the devil has a mindless workshop. Do workshops have minds, anyways?? Lets look at this statement in a converse sort of way, shall we? Well, not this statement, exactly, or that statement, either. To exercise your mind means not losing it. Conversely, to lose your exercise implies not minding it. It also implies, and is implied by you bloating up like a balloon. Well, me bloating up like a balloon, to be precise. Does that mean I've lost your exercise? Not surprising, considering the things I lose on a daily basis. To name a few, my Parker pen, my camera bag, two cellphone chargers, one cellphone, my helmet, my bike keys, my torch and it. Yup, I've most definitely lost it.

What is it about reality shows, anyway? There's much hoohaa about a Ms. Shilpa Shetty winning a firangi reality show and consequently getting showered with moolah. But the poor thing, she's getting oh so badly bullied by her fellow contestants. And that's enough to get every desi mard out there fretting and fuming and ranting about his 'watan ki mitthi' and the next thing you know, there's a show on CNN-IBN about the racial undertones prevalent in the current day phenomenon of adult western bullying. This, incidentally, was preceded by a show where Shankar Mahadevan talks about his latest song that he painstakingly conceived with the noble intention of imbuing a much needed sense of patriotism in today's youth.....Rs. 450 a CD, of course. The news ticker at the bottom reads 'Woman sells her kid for Rs. 12,000'. TOI then writes a follow-up article on bullying in schools, illustrated by a telling picture of 2 college guys eve-teasing a girl. And just in case that doesn't grab one's attention, the next article is a sure clincher - 'Angelina has capital weekend'...accompanied by illustrations of the Jolie babe having a capital weekend. You gotta be thorough when you're running India's leading newspaper, you know.

Did you know that everything around you could be measured in degrees? No, not everything, you say? Hmm...I'd have to agree. You can't measure milk in degrees, for instance. Well, the temperature of milk, maybe, but that's not the same thing, is it? You can, however, measure boredom in degrees. Let's take degrees 1-5, alright? 1 being the most boring and 5 being the least.

Degree 1 - You're lying in a hospital bed. Seven days pass by and you're still lying in the same hospital bed. You wake up on the eighth morning with a burst of excitement. Today's the day you leave the bed, finally! You gulp down your morning idlis and afternoon idlis in a flash and then ask for an extra idli, because obviously, anyone capable of eating so many idlis can't be too sick to leave, right? Your eyes latch on to the seconds hand of the clock and finally, after a nerve tingling wait, it's 5pm and two malayali nurses come in to escort you off the bed. You must be dreaming, you think, and pinch yourself to ensure its really happening. Slowly but surely your feet move downwards and hit the floor. You feel your butt separating itself from its week long companion (with some reluctance) and then...you're standing, proudly, with one malayali nurse holding each arm. Slowly, unsteadily, you make your way to the door, open it slowly. You're giddy with delight, you see the most wondrous sight you have in a week, more beautiful than the Taj Mahal, more awe-inspiring than the Himalayas.....the hospital corridor! You start to walk down it, leaving your room, one step, two steps...the simple process of linear progression suggests you reach 5 steps eventually. The nurses beam, the doctor beams, congratulates you on your progress and asks you to continue this exercise regimen, twice a day, for the next three days of stay in your hospital bed. If things go well you get to climb up and down the stairwell on the fourth day.

Degree 2 - You're at a party. You didn't want to go but were too polite to refuse. You land up on time, greet the host, then look around and observe exactly zero known faces. The host takes this opportunity to slip away quietly. You notice that every single unknown face is deep in conversation with other unknown faces. After 20 mins of staring at the wall and 4 visits to the toilet, you sidle up to one of the groups only to find they're discussing the finer points of the political situation in Bolivia two decades ago. After an eternity, you glance down at your watch and observe what must definitely be a distortion in the space-time continuum...its hands have only moved forward by 5 min. You notice a guy talking animatedly some distance away. He catches your glance and gives you a polite smile. You grab the opportunity to sidle up to him, only to find that he's describing the 23rd amendment to the property tax laws to a group of 70-somethings. The hostess then comes down, with a sweet smile tells you to get your next drink as the bar is shutting down, and oh, you definitely can't leave without having dinner...it'll be served in just under an hour.

Degree 3 - Watching a 3 hour mallu movie. I once saw one that had 10 minutes of footage of an old lady using a wet grinder. That was followed by another 10 minutes of a man (the hero, presumably) riding a bicycle from place A to place B.

Degree 4 - Being too bored to continue........

So that, along with bringing this post to an end, precludes the 5th degree - being too bored to read any further.

Red Bull vs Smirnoff

2006-11-24T15:52:00.000+05:30

There was a time in the not too distant past, when I happened to be rather overworked.

I guess that was probably my strongest opening sentence ever. Judging by the fact that it would have caused anyone who has a vague recollection of me to immediately keel over and swoon to the ground, all the while vigorously shaking their head in disbelief. But yes, miracles do occur at times. Now I can't exactly vouch for that since I haven't seen any in my short life, but I can vouch for the fact that I was overworked.

Unused as I am to this concept, and not knowing how exactly to cope with all this work that was falling around me like snowflakes on a cold wintry night, I took the counsel of my friend Kalpana, who's off late made it rather a habit to be overworked. Ghastly habit if you ask me, but to each their own, I guess. Well, anyways, I took her counsel, and she advised me to give Red Bull a try. Apparently she'd used it to good effect during some of these aforementioned work-frenzies she was apt to fall into every now and then.

Now, the Red Bull ad with Leonardo Da Vinci 'fulltoo' flying off on cute little wings happens to be one of my favorites, and so I pictured myself hovering in circles around the room, striking lightning bolts down at the mess of the paper on the floor, causing it to swish into a whirlwind and neatly sort itself out into the 'Done' box. Alright, I tend to have a vivid imagination at times...but that's never hurt anybody, has it? I also, incidentally, pictured myself developing bulging biceps that tore through my shirtsleeves and then sprinting off down the street to beat Ben Johnson's fastest time.

So, with these happy thoughts in mind, I proceeded to the nearest Food World to procure one. And three hours later, there I was, staring in blissful mesmerization at the wall ahead of me, my work in a neatly sorted pile in the 'Done' box, and shirtsleeves thankfully intact.

In fact, the only other thing in existence with these unique properties that do my soul so much good in so short a time happens to be Vodka. Need I now state the obvious? In my enhanced state of awareness, it was a simple matter of putting two and two together to come up with the idea of penning a comparison between these two greatest of drinks.

The immediate effects

Both these drinks are not composed of the Eno-type stuff that works it wonders in seconds. You need to wait patiently for the results. While the first peg of Vodka leaves you in a near-normal state, with just the hint of a smile and slightly sparkling eyes, the first few gulps of Red Bull leave you emitting a burp or two at most.

But then, slowly but surely, the euphoria starts to hit you. As I sat in front of my PC with Red Bull in hand, I noticed the characters in MS-Word appear bigger and more well-spaced out, and was able to observe intricate patterns between the spacing that had eluded my observation previously. I glanced at the wall to my left, and was aware of a clear sense of...cleanliness...that was hitherto lacking. The wall seemed bare, untouched...pure and pristine somehow, and seemed to be just a slightly brighter shade of yellow.

With Vodka the effects are similar, if somewhat contrasting. In the sense that, if I had sipped my second peg of Vodka in front of the PC, I wouldn't have noticed the intricate patterns or the purity of the wall, but then I wouldn't need to. I would generally have a much better appreciation of MS-Word, and the wonderful folks who created it. I would have on my lips a song of praise for the mason and the painter, kind benevolent folk whose tireless efforts culminated in that beautiful yellow wall.

Mid-term effects

Encouraged by the initial symptoms, I completed the rest of the of Red Bull in quick time. I sat there waiting for the effects, but the thing with Red Bull is...unlike Smirnoff...you don't really notice it hitting you. Its like falling off to sleep...you never quite know when exactly it happens. What I did notice was that several minutes later, I was wide awake and on full alert. All the lethargy and frustration of a few minutes ago had vanished completely. I was alert as an eagle with my body tensed, poised like a cobra, ready to strike in a split second. Almost of their own volition, my fingers lashed out at the keyboard and the work started to get done. All this happened almost on automation, while my mind was locked in the depths of euphoria. It was like Vivekananda and Captain Kirk said "Watch what happens in the world around you (or beneath you, in the case of Capt. K), but be not affected by the outcome".

Now, back to Vodka...as indicated earlier, it's very easy to notice the mid-term effects hitting you. Roughly at the start of the third peg (this is subjective, of course...I once had a friend collapse after a beer because he hadn't mixed enough Fanta in it), you notice that the room somehow seems to have stretched a little. Everything seems a little distant. Your mind is again seperated from your body, but unlike with RB it becomes a helpless creature behind bars. You notice yourself babbling something beyond your comprehension, but are unable to (or don't care to) correct yourself. Depending on the subject, this behavior may or may not be accompanied by the feeling that you've suddenly turned into a walking encyclopaedia and feel this sudden urge to enlighten the poor sodden souls around you on every topic imaginable. Disastrous combination, this. Of course, it helps that you're on Capt. K's territory again, not caring about what happens in the world near you. One effect, however, that's unique to Vodka is that you become an ocean of love. Your heart expands a hundredfold, enveloping in its warmth everybody within sight. You vehemently express your solidarity with a complete stranger who may well have been a piece of furniture a while ago. Then another stranger says the exact opposite thing, and you and the first stranger both vehemently express solidarity with him. Personalities, egos and opinions all melt away in the vast pot of brotherly love. Its like all of humankind is fused into a single soul.

Long-term effects

Red Bull has no lasting effects, really. You very gradually sink back to your normal state of mind and body once the Red Bull wears off, and you suddenly realize that you are sleepy, frustrated and tired again. The only difference is that since your work is now all completed, you can freely give in to all of these negative feelings without any cause for concern. Or down another Red Bull for the whole cycle to repeat again.

I can't honestly comment on the long-term effects of Vodka as I have this inexplicable tendency to fall asleep when the mid-term effects reach their heights. When I wake up the next afternoon, however, I am back to normal again. There is, of course, some initial confusion when I find myself in a strange room surrounded by people who look oddly familiar, like I'd known them in another life, but clarity is usually restored once said people start to wake up. Apart from this odd feeling of wanting to jump into the nearest well and drink up all its contents, or of someone pounding my head with a sledgehammer, I feel pretty much the same as I did the previous evening.

Well, there you have it, the definitive comparison of Red Bull and Vodka. Time now to delve into research for my next detailed thesis - what happens when you when you top up a peg of Smirnoff with a can of Red Bull.

Musings on wings

2006-11-22T18:02:00.000+05:30

A world of smooth grey concrete beyond the glass walls...a forbidden, mysterious land, stretched out as far as the eye can see. The lanscape punctuated by brilliant, flashy red, yellow and blue lights. A world inhabited by men and women in bright flouroscent jackets scurrying about on their business, mumbling furtively into their walkie-talkies. A bewildering array of vehicles ply here - sleek, multi-coloured buses, seemingly made partly out of glass, that run noiselessly letting people in and out of automated doors, huge white trucks that elevate their carriers high up above the ground, vehicles that seem to be nothing more than moving platforms on wheels carrying an assortment of goods, staircases on wheels, and the more ordinary vans and jeeps of all sizes.

However, all of this takes a backseat to the huge, 3-storey behemoths that stand motionless in the foreground like slumbering giants, while the assortment of smaller vehicles go fussing around them, like servants getting a warrior primed and ready for battle. Occasionally, one of these mammoth creatures whizzes past in the background, emitting a loud. high-pitched shriek as it flashes past. Your eyes are drawn to it like a magnet, watching as it picks up speed and hurtles down the concrete like a stampeding elephant. At the last moment, when it has nearly run out of ground, this giant gets its nose up, it's wheels leave the ground and it majestically soars up into the air, going higher and higher until it disappears into the clouds.

There's a delay, as always, in two Air Deccan flights. Flights that are to arrive at 6pm are postponed to 7.30pm and then to 8.30pm. A passenger curses his fate as he took a couple of hours off work to reach the airport on time. Huge crowds throng the boarding gate as the attendant gives the standard excuse that the flight hasn't landed. One irate passenger asks to speak to the Air Traffic Control to determine where the plane is. People everywhere whip out their cell phones to inform their families or co-workers that they will be delayed by two hours. Someone grumbles about "Non-existent in-flight service as it is, combined with harassment like this". Angry, upset faces everywhere. A few people snigger as a Rajasthani type villager, who's probably never spoken a word of English in his life, approaches the attendant with a bewildered look, boarding pass clutched in hand.

Two little girls, in the meantime, have their noses flat against the window. An Emirates flight backs up to taxi down the runway. The elder of the girls turns around excitedly to inform her parents that "See, aeroplanes also have reverse gear!". Her little sister is jumping up and down in excitement.

It's at moments like these that I wish I could be a kid again. They don't actually need to read Harry Potter or 'The Faraway Tree' for their daily dose of fantasy...it really is present all around them. I remember my two most favorite outings as a kid being:

1. A visit to the Hyderabad airport, so I could climb to the balcony, wave goodbye and watch flights take off.
2. Going to the 'exhibition' so I could eat cotton candy and ride the 'merry-go-rounds' and the 'giant-wheel'.

And what's changed now? I'm still the same person, aren't I? So why is it that a few pegs of Vodka are an absolute necessity to achieve anything near that state of mind? It's not like I've grown weary with age and have the burden of the world on my shoulders. I'm only 28 and besides, burden...moi??? I guess it's just that we've gotten too used to the world and its ways. Not just an ever-increasing familiarity, but burgeoning expectations from technology means that there's nothing really left to wonder at anymore. A trip to Mars? Cybernetics? Nanotechnology? The workings of the human mind? Alien life forms? Hitherto unexplored, but today passe even to the well-informed layman. In case you're wondering about the last one, I watched this program on Discovery not long ago, where scientists have pinpointed the nearest planets that have conditions suitable for life, and based on a study of it's environment and drawing parallels with our own history of evolution, have created very realistic 3-D animations of the possible life forms there. They even have research labs and personnel dedicated 24/7 to this task.

It's not that I want everyone to change into heretics, give up all the modern pleasures of life and go live atop tree-houses in forests with fruits and bugs for their daily sustenance. Quite the contrary, actually. I welcome technology into my life with open arms - anything that allows me to do one iota less of work a day can't be all bad, right? I love rationalizing and discovering logical answers for anything and everything, from David Blaine to God to Near Death Experiences. But every once in a while, I just wish I could jump over a ditch into an enchanted forest, climb up a giant tree that grows pears and strawberries on the same branch, say 'Accio, broom' and go flying off into the unknown. Either that, or be transported 100 years into the future, so I could look agape at something ordinary and go "Shit!! No way is that possible" I wish I didn't have someone explain to me exactly how a whale in another planet could have wings and live it's life up in the air. Maybe there is, after all, such a thing as information overload.

I spent my time on that flight looking out the window and wondering what it would be like to fall into the carpet of clouds beneath me, marvelling at the technology that allowed me to eat a warm omelette while flying at breakneck speeds at an altitude of 34,000 feet, and at the fact that I reached Hyderabad in 50 minutes while the trip to the airport took me one hour.

It wasn't a bad flight, really!

Teenage Tales

2006-10-18T18:55:00.000+05:30

It seems so long ago now. Those years of blissful freedom, when my days were filled with fun and laughter and I used to revel in the simple pleasures of life, like sharing a cup of Irani chai and 'biskoot' at Paradise with three other classmates, footboarding on an RTC bus all the way to Charminar, only to footboard all the way back on the next return bus...those prof-teasing, college-bunking, basketball-playing, watching-blue-film-at-Lamba-theatre days. All thats left now is slowly fading memories and long lonely hours of wistful yearning.

It is in an attempt to relive these fond memories of an innocent childhood, that I embark on a series of 'Teenage Tales' posts, each of which will serve to highlight a significant episode of my adolescent days.

The first in the series - Learning to Ride.

The first unsteady steps

As any boy worth his salt will attest, his first bike-riding lesson is one of the most enthralling events that life has to offer. It is normally preceded by days of uncontrollable excitement coupled with sleepless nights, where a normally meek and docile boy can be found salivating with a savage, hungry glint in his eyes whenever he's in the vicinity of the bike. It is, if you ask me, the first step from boyhood into the independence of adulthood.

So it was that one bright, sunny morning I set off with my dad, to learn the secrets of this illustrious art, at the hallowed instruction place of Parade Grounds, Secunderabad.

Now, to fully grasp the following sequence of events, you need to understand two things:

One, that I wasn't exactly the 'Punjab da puttar' types you see in the movies. I was a puny skinny little kid, with a head that was a little too large for my body, wearing huge round owlish spectacles that allowed me to see the world around with some semblance of clarity. In short, a typical nerd minus the brains. Of course, time with her infinitely soothing caress has changed all that. I've now grown into a bespectacled puny skinny little man with a head thats too large for my body...and I'm still not entirely convinced about the efficacy of my brains. But thats beyond the point...

Two, a Bajaj 150 scooter, while being an excellent family type vehicle that embodies the 'Hamara Bajaj' spirit, is not exactly conducive to being ridden by little runts. It has this odd tendency to skid, backfire and buck when started, and tends to run around on one wheel while you hold on to it for dear life. In fact, this behaviour of the bike earned me considerable fame as 'Mr. wheelie' in college, when all I was actually trying to do was put it in 1st gear.

Anyways, back to the lesson. After having received a brief discourse on the fine art of riding, it was time for me to 'go solo'. In much excitement, rushed around to the right side of the bike to kick-start it, only to find the bike had this alarming tendency to tilt over and fall when I stood on the kick-start lever. Yes, thats right...stood...merely kicking required considerably more strength than nature had chosen to endow me with.

Much to my shame, I had to get dad to start the bike, which he did with a dubious look of "Maybe I should have waited another 2 years for this". The next step was to sit on the bike, where I was faced with the problem that the bike simply refused to stand still on two wheels while I sat on it. It seemed to want me to prop it up with a leg on the ground, which I did only to find my butt wouldn't reach the seat in that position.

Dad, who by then had started to have a faint red tinge suffusing his cheeks, abandoned the solo idea and sat on the back seat, propping up the bike. I managed to sit on it, and tremulously tried to put it in gear...which I finally accomplished, accompanied by screeches of protest from the bike, with the use of both hands. Then came the part of raising the throttle, when I discovered my left hand wasn't strong enough to hold the clutch down on its own. The bike, possibly tired of all this nonsense, gave a little leap forward and shut itself off.

Dad, who had by then reached the end of his tether, gave me a rap on the head and instructed me to go over the whole sequence again, "This time properly!" Like an errant schoolboy, I complied only to achieve exactly the same result. Honest to God, the scene replayed itself like some stuck disc of a horror movie atleast 10 times, which was accompanied by atleast 10 raps on the head by dad, who had by then gone completely red and had steam billowing out his ears. The bike had started to sound more like a screeching banshee than a scooter. Dad then decided he had enough and with a final rap on the head, took off for home, with me sitting teary-eyed on the back seat.

Destination - Old Man

My riding prowess had improved considerably after a month of practice. I was able to start the bike, sit on it and shift through all the gears with the bike emitting only minor screeches of protest. So it was that one day, when I had to renew my bus pass, I decided to ride to Secunderabad Station. The onward journey was fairly incident-free, which was probably owing to the fact that my brother was riding. Having completed our business, I boldly took the rider's seat and started back. The return journey was also incident-free...atleast for about half a minute. Now, anyone who's played 'Road rash' or the much more entertaining 'GTA III' knows what fun it is to slam your vehicle into a pedestrian. Of course, not having had the chance to play these games at that time, I decided to try it out in person. Thus it was that a few seconds later, the three of us (the bike, my brother and I) found ourselves in a tangled heap with an old geezer on the footpath.

After the complicated yet mandatory process of extricating oneself from old people on the footpath was completed, I found myself surrounded by a group of onlookers who no doubt found this incident rather odd. It is at times like these, that I find myself bestowed with with an unwordly sense of calm, and am able to keep an iron control over my wits. In response to a "What happened here?" query from a dangerous looking fellow on the street, I calmly elaborated on the sequence of events for his benefit "I came from there....old man was walking here (pointing to a spot about 3 feet away)...then we got entangled here...then you came and asked me this question" etc. Upon which he frowned deeper and asked "But why did you collide with him?"

You know, what I really can't stand is people with this insatiable thirst for knowledge. You understand their inquisitiveness and go about patiently answering their questions, but even before you've completed, they start bombarding you with another question and another and another, until you're at your wits end and are pulling your hair out in despair.

Still maintaining an iron grip on my emotions, I contemplated the pros and cons of doing the "Bwaaaah" bit. You will, no doubt, ask "But what exactly is this bwaaah bit?" Well, to tell you, I'll have to resort to a cheap gimmick which B-grade movies employ to confuse viewers, a flashback within a flashback.

Back in school, I had this classmate who had perfected the art of appearing to wail his guts out. He could do it instantly, with no external stimulus whatsoever. Worked wonders when teachers caught him doing stuff that...well..good little boys are not supposed to do. The teacher would round on him menacingly, but before she could come within two feet, he would go "Bwaaaah" at the top of his voice. The teacher of course, would be completely startled and beat a hasty retreat, and our friend would be grinning ear-to-ear before she even left the room.

As an aside, news is that this dude did exceedingly well in his medical exams and studied to be a doctor at one of India's top medical universities. I can just imagine the scene at his practice:

Classmate-Doctor (to patient): I've completed the angiogram of the left auscular valve of your heart, and its ticking away perfectly. No cause for worry at all!

Patient: Ah, excellent, doctor, does that mean I'm cured of my appendicitis?

Classmate-Doctor: Er..appendicitis(??)... yes... ehm... BWAAAAAAAH!!

But I digress...to get back to the point, I ultimately decided not to bank on the bwaah bit, owing to the fact that its effect greatly reduces with age, and figured that the best recourse would be to put as much distance as possible between me and the scene of the crime. So I collected my brother, who a few moments ago had grabbed a mineral water bottle from a nearby store and was proceeding to empty its contents on the old man, mumbled something to the dangerous dude about the brake being broken and my being on the way to the mechanic to have it fixed, and successfully managed to scoot off.

The final (still unsteady) steps

As they say, practice makes perfect. So I persevered. I practised and I practised. With the result that I've now perfected the art of falling off bikes and crashing into pedestrians. Over the years, I've fallen off many many bikes and had up close and personal acquaintances with many many people on the street. I've fallen off the Bajaj 150, then a Splendor and a Pulsar, and I currently fall off an Enfield. I've fallen all over Hyderabad, Chennai, Bangalore and other smaller places. And if things work out according to plan, I hope to be falling off the Himalayas within a year or two :-)

A most excellent journey

2006-10-05T14:50:00.000+05:30

Funny when I look back...my only intention in starting this blog was to maintain a travelogue of sorts. To have something to show the grandkids many years later, when I become a doddering old wreck and they keep stealing my dentures repeatedly. Then I'd point a bony, trembling finger at them and say "Yesh, I may need denturesh now, but when I wash a young man, I did sho many thingshs...conquered the highesht peakshs and shwam the depthshs of the oceanshs" and then point them to http://kaushik578.blogspot.com so they would be suitably humbled, and creep back to my room with a heavy heart and replace the dentures.

I am, of course, making the obvious assumption here that I will at some point, before I produce grandkids, graduate from gallavanting around the neighbourhood to doing some serious travel. All for the sake of my dentures.

Well, that was the idea when I started, but soon decided to move on to ramblings of a more general nature...and I enjoyed doing it. Always had this vague inclination to 'write something' sometime in life, never thought blogging would be the answer. Not sure how long this interest will last ( I have, at various points in my life, had interests ranging from learning the inner workings of a frog to writing poems to mastering chess, none of which lasted more than a few weeks), but so far so good.

But anyways, for now its 'back to my roots'. Time to produce yet another travel tale, this one about my weekend ride to Ooty.

The Planning

Was non-existent until a couple of days before the weekend, when I got into a mad rush to get stuff done. Typical of me. The plan was to spend one night each at Bandipur and Ooty, but Bandipur and neighbouring forests were all booked due to the long weekend. After a day of making frantic calls to all the resorts around, decided to scrap Bandipur and spend 2 nights at Ooty. Having made this decision, I then made a frantic call to my uncle to book a room at the SBH Guest House at Ooty, which was
thankfully available. Then realized that the bike had just been serviced and still needed about 150km of running in. With no other option left, took off on Thursday night on a long, boring ride at 45kmph down the Krishnagiri highway to complete the
run-in. On Friday evening, it dawned on me that riding with a backpack with 3 days worth of stuff might just end up breaking my back, so rushed off to purchase saddlebags. On the morning of the trip, realized that I'd given my jeans to the dhobi a week ago and he hadn't returned them. Rushed all around the neighbourhood to find the guy but couldn't locate him, so had to make do with a couple of old, torn pants. Finally, late Saturday morning, all set to go.

The Route

Bangalore - Mysore (150km)
Mysore - Nanjangud - Gundelpet - Bandipur (approx 80km)
Bandipur - Masinagudi - Ooty (approx 80km)

The Battle With The Rain Gods - Part I

The ride from Bangalore to Mysore was peaceful. With the newly rebuilt 4-lane (6-lane at times) highway, all you need to do is hold down the throttle and let the bike do the rest. Quite boring. Exactly halfway down the highway, spotted a huge sign saying 'Cafe Coffee Day'. Thought I had dropped off to sleep and had dreamt it, but a few metres later, right bang in the middle of nowhere, there was this huge, 2 storeyed CCD. Stopped there and had a steaming cup of Cappuchino. Nice idea, this, of erecting Coffee Days in the middle of nowhere.

As I neared Mysore, the Rain Gods started pestering me again. We have this bit of unfinished business, the Rain Gods and I. More like a friendly rivalry, actually. For details on how it started, read my earlier post, Trip to Shimoga. Well, anyways, the Rain Gods, seeing me out on the open highway, cackled with glee and did their thing...pouring water out of the skies. But this time I came prepared. It was but the work of a moment to park the bike, whip out and don my rain gear (which I had secretly smuggled into the saddlebags for this very reason), yell out triumphantly "Smite me, Ye Mighty Smiter" (yes, I know, a la Jim Carrey) and continue on my way, snug as a bunny. Actually, between you and me, I wasn't entirely snug. A few rivulets of water had managed to sneak in beneath the raincoat when I wasn't looking, and were uncomfortably snaking their way down my nether regions. But I wasn't going to let the Rain Gods know that, of course, and let out another triumphant laugh. Very villainous. Just as I'd expected, this show of resistance put the Rain Gods on the back foot, and they hastily left to convene a meeting to discuss this unexpected turn of events, in the process letting up on the rain considerably. "Victory is mine", I thought, and rode on. If only I knew that this was but the start of a long and arduous battle!

The Battle With The Rain Gods - Part II

Decided not to halt at Mysore due to time constraints; I wanted to cross the ghats and reach Ooty by sunset. Just as I crossed Mysore, the Rain Gods did their thing again, this time with greater fury. My rain gear was holding up though, so decided to continue. The Gods however, it seemed, would go to any levels to ensure victory, and they stooped to Inzy like tactics. They enlisted the aid of oncoming trucks, which would, for no earthly reason, make a sudden swerve as they neared me. This resulted in the underlying puddles emptying themselves on my person. I couldn't take much more of this, obviously, and with a cry of "Foul!" took shelter at the next petrol bunk. Victory, it seemed, would go to the Gods on this occasion. I waited for a while for the rain to lessen, and then continued on, more for practical reasons than anything else; the thought of navigating ghat roads at night was much scarier than riding through rain. The Rain Gods mistook my cowardice for enterprising spirit, though, and decided to call it quits. I could almost hear them say "Good show, old chap! Bartender, a couple of rounds of sunshine for him, please, on the house!" Well, so the clouds parted, the sun shone through, and I continued merrily on, singing 'Country roads...take me home'.

Witches Hair

Thats exactly what the roots hanging down the Banyan trees on the side of the road looked like. Thick, dark, ugly knotted clumps of hair hanging down from the tree, in a neatly combed out fashion.

The road from Mysore to Bandipur was much more interesting. Good roads, much narrower 2-lane ones, smooth with the exception of the odd bumps here, the odd potholes there, with pleasant country scenery on either side. In short, much better for riding. Once you reach Gundelpet, there's a road branching off to the left which leads to Wayanad. Resolved to do that another time. Reached Bandipur about 2 hours after crossing Mysore.

Again, great ride passing through dense forest. The road was very potholed at a few places, but thats ok since there's no point rushing through the forest anyways. Much better to ride slow, look out for wildlife and generally enjoy your time there. Didn't actually see too many animals, though. There's this watering hole at the entrance, where I spotted a huge herd of Chital and a peahen. Stopped for another peahen crossing the road a while later.

Close encounters of the third kind

About halfway through Bandipur, glanced at the rearview mirror and was shocked out of my wits to see a wierd, alien looking creature behind me. Dark brown, wrinkled skin on its body, topped by a smooth, black dome of a head and big dark round owl
like eyes staring at me. Was stunned for a moment, till I realized that I was looking at my own reflection. Adjusted the rearview and continued on.

Bandipur - Ooty

After Bandipur you cross the Tamil Nadu border, go past Mudumalai and then take a left turn over a narrow bridge towards Masinagudi. Same forest, different names. A few kilometres down the Masinagudi road, and you hit the Kalahatti ghat section.

The ride up the Kalaghatti ghats was superb. 36 hairpin bends in all, and several more non-hairpin bends. Great to see the scenery and the weather change as you head towards the top. I think Ooty's probably the only hill-station in the south with Himalayas-like coniferous trees. Bike had a very tough time climbing the ghats though. Had to do most of them in 1st gear, and at one point towards the top, a little boy actually ran past the bike. Will probably have to get me a new bike if I'm ever to do serious travelling. Pleasantly surprised to find the weather in Ooty quite cold...nice nip in the air. Got a local mechanic to fix my brake lever which had broken due to a silly little fall on the ghats (the bike had stalled and my leg didn't quite reach the ground!), then found the guest house and settled in for the night.

Avalanche

Avalanche is this place about 35km from Ooty. Decided to leave at 8am, only to find the bike refused to start. Poor thing was apparently not used to the cold. So kicked and kicked for nearly 30 mins, while swearing at the top of my voice. The other guests seemed to find this a very interesting spectacle; they formed a semi-circle behind me and watched, the kinder souls among them uttering sympathetic ohhs and ahhs each time I swore. One guy started explaining to his dad the mechanics of a Bullet and why they don't start easily. Almost lost it when the old man turned to me and asked "But then why did you come this far on a scooter? Don't you have any trains in Blore?" The bike finally started, however, and with a final venomous glare at the old man, I hopped on and sped off.

The road to Avalanche was truly one of the best I've ever been on. At times there's tall pine trees on either side, intertwining at the top and blocking out sunlight, and at times you have breathtaking views of mist-covered hills. A thick fringe of moss on both sides of the road...you get the picture. And completely isolated, no humans anywhere around. Would've been in a tough spot, to say the least, if the bike had a puncture or anything, but it handled itself admirably well. I literally kept stopping every few metres to take snaps. After about 25km on this road, you pass a village called Emerald, then the road deteriorates (rather badly) and passes through dense woods, with dead branches and leaves all over the road. Another 10km or so of this road, and you reach the Avalanche checkpost. Absolutely awesome ride!

The 'ranger' there made a bit of a fuss because I hadn't got permission from some forest officer in Ooty to see the place, but after I pleaded with him for a bit, saying I had come all the way from Bangalore to see this place, and then tipped him 20 bucks, he allowed me to park the bike and walk on inside.

As you walk in, there's a bit of opening and a narrow path between the trees, then you come to a huge green grassy meadow, with a lake on one end surrounded by mountains on the other side. Plonked myself by the lake, took a few snaps, washed face in cold water and generally spent about an hour daydreaming there.

Finally got hungry (it was around lunchtime) so forced myself to get up and head back to Ooty.

Pykara Falls

Wasn't sure what to do after lunch. Wanted to visit Mukurthi peak, about 40km from Ooty, but couldn't get any reliable information about how to get there. So decided to do Pykara falls, about 21km away. Started off around 2.30pm, and the going was good initially. After a few kilometres, however, the road got extremely horrible. Not sure how I can convey the horribleness...an accurate description would probably be that there were potholes every inch of the way, most of them covered with puddles. Like the road had got smallpox or something. Again very scenic, but didn't really notice it since my eyes had to be on the road all the time. Reached Pykara after a long, slow bone-jarring journey.

I had expected Pykara to be another isolated, peaceful spot, so got a shock to discover it was one of the main tourist spots in Ooty. Hordes of people, vendors selling cotton candy, tea etc...the works. Anyways, proceeded to the falls, and they are actually quite beautiful. More like rapids with a small waterfall, but again what makes it special is the picture postcard surroundings. Would've been a wonderful place if not for the noisy crowds. Spent ages trying to take 2 or 3 snaps, because some tourist or the other would always get in the way, and there were some jokers who'd managed to get right in the middle of the falls and were noisily bathing in full public view.

The Rain Gods - Part III

The highly observant among you will notice that I did not add 'Battle With' in the title. This, far from being an aberration, is actually a wilful ommission on my part, done after a lot of debating with my inner self. The simple reason being that it was no longer a battle. The Rain Gods, by now realizing that they had a formidable foe in me, stooped to the level of psychological warfare. What exactly they did with my head, I cannot say. But the end result was that, when the rain started up again, it was accompanied by this odd feeling of depression and hopelessness. The world seemed to turn a dark shade of gray. The task of whipping out and donning my rain gear, which would normally have been but the work of a moment, now seemed to be a long, arduous and completely uninteresting task. So, with a silent 'sigh' at the heavens, started the bike and headed back, getting completely drenched along the way.

Reached the guest house an hour and a half later. Gave another silent sigh to the old man who was watching TV and trudged into my room. Even the squeltechy squelch of my shoes, which would normally have instigated in me a frenzy of frog-like jumping to observe the different types of squelches, had no effect whatsoever on my mood. Gave the landlady a forlorn look when she asked me how the trip was, and dropped off into a long and dreamless sleep.

The sinister plans of Robert

Generally roamed around town the next morning. Wanted to draw cash but the ATMs had all been bled dry due to the 3 day bank holiday. Met an elderly chap called Robert and proceeded to have a long conversation with him. He owned a workshop for 2 and
4 wheelers, and enlightened me on his plans to build a rugged jeep for off-roading in the Himalayas. It would be an open-topped jeep, complete with portable kitchen and gas-stove for cooking. At night, a press of a button would cause a circular dome of a tent to inflate over the roof. He then gave me some horror stories of cheetahs attacking babies and calves at night, and added plans to build a wire-mesh over his tent to prevent an attack by these dastardly creatures. Very James Bond-ish jeep it would be. He seemed to like horror stories, Robert did. Told me this other one of a youth who had gone into the forest without a permit and was jailed for one night by the authorities before they (Robert and his friends) rescued him. His final horror story was of a friend who had gone into some remote mountains, where his jeep broke down. The poor blighter then had to walk several kilometres to the nearest village to enlist aid. In the meantime, his jeep somehow slipped out of gear and went rolling down the mountains and got stuck at the edge of a precipice. They had to dismantle the jeep and carry it in parts to Ooty. He ended the story with his plans to purchase that same jeep to try out his James Bondish modifications.

At this point, already having spent an hour with him, I indicated a strong desire to proceed on my way. He asked me one final question "I've been in Ooty since 1956, but the wife is forcing me to move to Bangalore, as she wants to be closer to the kids. What do you think I should do?" after which he let me go.

Confession: I know I've just been very sarcastic about Robert, but that was just for kicks. He was actually quite a nice helpful guy who gave me detailed directions to all the ATMs in town. In fact, he offered to rent me one of his jeeps the next time I was in Ooty, so I could go touring the countryside. Sounds interesting, and I will probably take him up on it sometime.

The return journey

Was fairly uneventful. Reached Mysore in quick time. Halted along the way to take a few snaps. Mysore was overcrowded due to the Dassera festival, and took me an hour and a half just to get from one end of town to the other. Return on the Mysore-Bangalore highway was like a drive down M.G.Road; it was so full of vehicles returning after the festival. Still, I made good time and reached Bangalore in roughly 2.5 hours

The final verdict

It was a most excellent trip, one I will fondly remember for a long time to come. Only wish I had more time to see all the surrounding areas. Its put an urge in me to visit forests and hills more often, so will probably plan to visit other hilly forests sometime soon.

For those of you who've persisted with me through this ultra-long, ultra-boring writeup, you have my sincere thanks and as a reward, you now have the chance to see some the snaps I clicked along the way. They can be viewed at http://gallerykaushik.fotopic.net

Note: You may find a strange, unearthly haze preventing a clear view of some of the snaps. I swear that has nothing to do with my ability to click photos. Probably just another sinister trick of the gods!

Animal Activism

2006-09-17T22:08:00.000+05:30

A cockroach is stuck in a washbasin.

The cockroach expends all its energy trying to get out. Runs around blindly at the bottom feeling the porcelain with its antennae, trying to identify a climbable substance but faced with an impenetrable, impregnable wall, wherever it goes. The harder it tries to climb out, the more it slips back. If only it could understand the fact that the washbasin curves in an increasingly convex gradient, so that the farther it reaches, the greater are the forces pulling it back. Cockroaches, simply put, are not designed to get out of washbasins. But of course, its only a simple-minded cockroach that doesn't understand all these mysterious laws. It just knows that it wants to get out. So it keeps trying. And then, at one point, it seemingly defies the laws of physics and refuses to slip back as it reaches the edge. Or perhaps its just pure luck that it hasn't slipped yet. At any rate, it works its six legs hard, pushing, pushing with every ounce of strength, until the top of its antennae just cross the tip. Ah! The outside, finally! It can actually feel the air outside! Nothing can stop it now, it thinks. It surges forth with renewed hope, renewed vigour. The cockroach has finally mastered its fate and beaten insurmountable odds. It has boldly gone where no cockroach has gone before. But then....the unimaginable occurs. The washbasin comes to life! It sees the cockroach about to leave, and knows it must prevent it, at any cost. The washbasin realizes that its very design, its very purpose, meant to keep cockroaches trapped for all eternity, is being threatened. Its knows it must emerge the victor in this struggle, or be subject to a lifetime of shame. It then exerts powers beyond the cockroach's realm of understanding, and gives life to its walls. The walls of the basin start to dissolve beneath the cockroach's legs. What was once a fixed, solid wall, is now a fluid, slippery substance. The very walls of the basin start to move downwards, as if in ultimate defiance of the cockroach's will. It flails its legs wildly, tries in vain to grip with its antennae, but to no avail. The edges of the washbasin move downwards in a powerful spiral, dragging the cockroach along. It goes down until it can go down no more, and is helplessly pinned against the bottom, looking sadly upwards at the edge, the edge that was once so close, once within grasp, but is now an eternity away. And the walls continue to move, pinning the cockroach with ever increasing force, as if they themselves were conspiring to keep the cockroach trapped in its porcelain prison. The prison itself the ultimate warden. The cockroach continues to trash about, to try to escape the powerful downward spiral, but its struggles get feebler and feebler. It feels itself helplessly stuck in the drain, while the washbasin, as if to prove its superiority, or perhaps in anger, trying to teach it a lesson for its insolence, or perhaps even to guarantee itself ultimate victory, continues to pound it downwards, downwards....ever downwards.

A tryst against fate. An attempt at control. Nectar that burns. A house made of thorns. A lesson in futility.

The cherubic little boy, in the meantime, realizes the cockroach is nearly done for. He bites his lower lip and frowns in a moment of deep thought, causing little, ever so cute, wrinkles to appear on his brow. He concludes the cockroach is completely spent, and turns the faucet off.

Do you realize that cockroaches never go extinct? Where there's a wi...oops, I mean...where there's a washbasin, there's a cockroach.

Next in this series of wonderfully fascinating chronicles of animal behaviour, we present....the life of a sloth!

Blindness

2006-09-12T14:29:00.000+05:30

I want to write. I really really do.

I, however, seem to have been afflicted with this sudden and rather severe case of blogger's block. Not a serious malady to most, I know, but anyone who's read my previous post will readily understand my subsequent empathy for the Rani Mukherji character in 'Black'.

There I was, several weeks ago, happily swimming through a pool of ideas, where words would go floating past, so I could grab them, sample and savour them, and let them swim through my fingers only to see 2 or 3 more appear in front of me. In short, I was in pure unadulterated bliss, when...WHAM! The evil hand of fate pulled the plug out from beneath me. All my wonderful text went gushing through the drain, and I was left scratching and clawing at the bottom of a bone-dry pool.

So, it is with an effort to awaken my slumbering literary genius that I embark on this post. It is in the absence of all ideas that one turns to desperation...and thus it is, that in my deepest hours of darkness I turn to the single ray of hope that presents itself...a book review!!

Hold your horses, you say!! Thats all fine and dandy, you say, but aren't we forgetting something? Namely, that we need to have a book in order to do a book review? And where is a man bereft of ideas expected to come across a good read? An astute observation, indeed, except for the fact that I am afflicted with blogger's block, not reader's block. Besides, I say, I already have one in mind. What, really, you say? Yes, Blindness, I say.

Now lets move away from this increasingly confusing conversation, on to the main topic of this post, a review of 'Blindness' by Jose Saramago.

I believe that books, like movies, should not focus on the mundane. Thats one reason I read science-fiction. That and the fact that they have laser guns. But, to elaborate, science-fiction is one of the few areas where one isn't bound by the laws of this world, where one has the freedom to dream up alternate worlds, new truths, as it were, and then ponder how mankind would react when faced with these truths. This is what Jose Saramago does in Blindness. He thinks up an alternate scenario, one that is as far-fetched as it is horrifyingly real, and then gives you his version...a startlingly accurate version...of how humanity deals with this reality.

The premise of the book is this...in an unnamed city, an epidemic of blindness spreads. A man driving a car stops at a signal, and is suddenly and spontaneously rendered blind. A good samaritan (or so it seems at first) helps him home to his wife. The 'good samaritan' then takes off with his car. The wife, in the meantime, takes the blind man to a doctor. Pretty soon the wife, the car thief, the policeman who stopped him, the doctor and all his patients turn blind. And thus, the epidemic starts to spread across the city.

Interestingly, this is a unique 'white blindness', where the afflicted see white instead of black. A pure, dazzling whiteness all around them, enveloping them, wherever they look.

If that in itself were not frightening enough, Saramago proceeds to paint a bleak picture of how society deals with this disease. The authorities round up all the blind people, and everyone they've been in contact with, and herd them into an abandoned mental asylum. The building is surrounded by high walls, with guards posted to shoot anyone who tries to escape. There is, of course, no point caring for them or investigating the disease; anyone who attempts to make contact would certainly go blind as well.

Thus the narration starts, a group of blind inmates in an asylum, cut off from the world outside, and their attempt to live a 'normal' life under the circumstances.

What strikes home for me, is the fact that we pride ourselves so much on being a cultured and civilized race. We have all these wonderful policies and principles that give us a good life, and above all, we have this priceless gift called a brain that elevates us above the rest of the life on this planet. Right??

The question that Saramago poses is, 'what if'? What if these rules failed? What if science and our vast knowledge failed to help us? Is a human being a human being only because of these external factors, or is there something else, something intrinsic, that defines us as a race? What do human values and morales actually stand for? And the fact that he makes us think about all this without having to conjure up some nonsensical scenario like Earthlings being invaded by the planet Zorko, is what makes it all the more remarkable.

Now, this book is not unique in that it poses these questions. I know of atleast two others which make you think along these lines. 1984, which I've read, and Plague, which I haven't. While I think 1984 is a brilliant book in its own right, what differentiates Blindness from it is the realistic setting. While George Orwell thought up an alternate future, what with thought-police and vision-screens and all, Saramago presents his offering in a normal city, which could be one of any in the world. While I admire Orwell for his genius, there is a part of me that knows that his vision of a future will now never exist, or is highly unlikely, at the very least. Blindness, on the other hand, transcends time. Since Saramago does not use these gimmicks of alternate worlds or outlandish theories, his work is as believable today as it will be 100 years from now.

And lest the proceedings all appear too dark and pessimisstic, he also makes a provision to demonstrate kindness, humaneness and love in the midst of all this chaos. One lady, the aforementioned doctor's wife, is the only person who fails to contract this disease. She, however, pretends to be blind and goes along to the asylum so she can care for her husband, and there are several touching scenes of her coping with the madness, while yet maintaining her compassion.

If you dont care for any of the above, and just want mind-tingling horror, thats there as well, and its much more compelling than a Stephen King or Michael Crichton kind of horror, again because of the realism. Like this passage about a conference being held to discuss the epidemic, where the speaker cries out in mid-speech "I'm blind! I'm blind", and within a minute, everyone in the conference hall loses their sight. Or the part about a blind man getting out of the asylum and groping towards the gate, and the pandemonium it sparks among the guards. I was afraid to close my eyes or stare at a tubelight for hours after this book.

Not to forget the more subtle, yet lasting horror that strikes you once you read his portrayal of the weaknesses, fallibility and brutality of Man.

All in all, an absolutely mesmerizing read. One of the best kinds of unputdownable books. One that stretches across several genres. One that continues to make you think ages after you've put it down.

Now...if only it had laser guns as well.....

Speaker's Block

2006-08-08T12:10:00.000+05:30

I suppose everyone’s heard of writer’s block right? That mysterious psychological ailment that strikes the Jeffery Archer types, making their normally fluid pen-wielding hand go all limp and lifeless….in the process causing the masses untold misery in waiting for the next publication?

Ok….so obviously you have, but has anyone ever heard of a much more infrequent ailment…speaker’s block? No, I don’t mean the stage-fright induced cant-open-my-mouth feeling, the one that causes your mouth to go dry, your knees to become wobbly blobs of jelly, your body to go all aquiver, and having that general feeling of wanting to sink beneath the podium and die greatly enhanced by the fact that your heart has miraculously transformed from living tissue to a ball of lead…..no, I don’t mean all of that, although as you can see I have had some considerable experience with all of the above.

I mean the equally upsetting but less talked about one, of your desperately wanting to say something but your brain generally not co-operating. Before I go further, it should be made clear that I am not talking about reticence either….which is an admirable quality found in the archetypal cowboy that makes him perfectly content chewing a blade of grass and contributing a monosyllabic “Yep” and “Nope” to any conversation that happens his way. I mean the one found in more normal people like you and me, when we know we have to say something, we want to say something…anything…and yet there’s nothing to say.

Well, it’s something I seem to have been born with, actually. It’s like there’s an ‘off’ switch in the part of my head that controls speech which goes…well…off, obviously….at the worst possible moment. Sometimes occurs even when I’m in mid-sentence, so I suddenly forget both, what I was saying and what I wanted to say.

This problem occurs a lot during...but is not limited to...telephonic conversations. The only talks I really enjoy are when the person at the other end is..well...has tendencies towards higher than normal levels of verbosity, to put it suavely (is a blabbermouth, to put it crudely). No, I'm not being sarcastic, really...I really do enjoy these conversations. I've perfected the art of listening carefully to every word, contributing the occasional thoughtful "hmmmm...." at appropriate intervals, while at the same time making a mental note of interesting points that if put forth can spark off further frenzied dialogues (or monologues, if you will). To give you an example:

Far end of phone: Yakkety yakkety yak.....went to XYZ's house yesterday...yakkety yakkety yak....
Me: Umhmmm...umhmm...ahaan...
Far end: yakkety....at office today....yakk...{then sudden silence as topic is over}
Me: {In a flash of brilliance, putting 2 and 2 together} So, XYZ works in your office right??
Far end: Of course not! XYZ is...yakkety yakkety....and so forth.

Ahh...blissful conversation at its best. At the end of it all, not only am I that much more in touch with my friend, I can also congratulate myself for 'talking' on the phone for hours together.

Speaker's Block, however, is best illustrated when my co-conversationalist (is there a shorter word for the above??) happens to be of the more normal types, who thrives on 2 sides contributing to a meaningful dialogue. For instance:

Far end: Blah Blah...yada yada
Me: Blah Blah...yada yada
Far end: Blah...yada...blah?
Me: {Inevitable attack of SB}..Umhmm..umhmm..ahaan..{But this time, internal struggle going: think..think I say...say SOMEthing!!}
Far end:{not being well equipped to carry on single-handed talk} So....wellllll...
Me: ehhhhhhhhh...siighhhh
Far end: .....{bewildered by sudden influx of unintelligible sounds, falls silent}
Me: {in an attempt to salvage the conversation} Shu shu shu shu shuuuu {slight humming tone}

Another flash of brilliance...picked up this technique while handling customer service calls many years ago. Whenever I hadn't the foggiest of what the customer was talking about, I would do the "shu..shu.." bit, and the customer, moron that he was for thinking in the first place that I was capable of solving his problem, would assume I was humming while working away on the computer and would wait patiently, thus buying me more time.

So, to get back to the point...

Me: Shu shu shu shu shuuuu......
Far end: {rather naive, but obviously not as dumb as customer} What the hell's wrong with you? Why your making all these noises?

Sigh....another attempt at communication down the drain!

But that’s relatively alright...after all, friends are supposed to understand each other, and there are much better ways of communicating. I mean, all we have to do is head to the nearest pub and after a magical hour or two emerge bosom buddies all over again. Even better, a few gulps of the heavenly liquid has the same wondrous effect on SB that Vicks cough syrup has on the wicked 'gale ki khich-khich'.

No, the real disaster is when when SB raises its evil head during official conversations. Like this time I had to attend a 3-way conference call with my client in the US and Project Manager in Hyd.

US Client: So, your deliverables are....yakkety yakkety....
Hyd PM: Yes, yes, we promise you an SLA of...yakkety yakkety...
Me: ..Umhmm...umhmm..ahaan..
...And so on. The two sides carried on back and forth, while I happily followed the conversation. It was like listening to a tennis match...ears going this way and that.

The only issue was, after one hour, the client suddenly remembered there's this other bloke on the call who also happens to be on her payroll for some insane reason or the other.

US Client: Kaushik, are you there???
Me: {Sudden panic attack, and internal admonition starts: Shit! Shit!! You dolt! Why did you forget to say umhmm for the last 40 min?? Now think..THINK I say...}
US Client: {completely unaware of my internal turmoil} Kaushik? You there?? Hello???
Me: {in my most reassuring voice} Oh yes, of course I'm here...it’s not like I have a choice, right? (Last part, by the way, was stated in a fairly inaudible tone)
Client: Uh…Ok...so what did you think of my proposal to...yak yak?
Me: {still unable to score a victory over SB: Oh Goddd oh goddd oh godd oh goddd...perhaps if I stay silent she'll eventually forget I'm here..}
HYD PM, getting into the act: Kaushik! Why don’t you answer her questions???
Me: Err........Shu shu shu shu shuuuu?

So, I suppose you can guess what the end to that unhappy incident was :-(

It’s purely to eliminate career threatening incidents like this, that I advocate a bar counter in every office in place of the coffee machine...but this is where office-politics comes in. When the boss thinks up some weird solution at will take sales up by a measly 53.56%, he's credited with "thinking out of the box" and promptly given an office car and a bungalow in Banjara Hills...while such innovative suggestions from employees, nothing short of genius, I say, result in demotion from Assistant-Vice-Deputy-Manager to Sub-Assistant-Deputy-Vice-Manager.

To get back to the point, I'm not saying, by any means, that SB only happens over the phone. At least there I have the option of discreetly pressing the disconnect button and then blaming the government anarchy for the deplorable state of telephone lines across the country.

It’s much worse when it happens during face-to-face conversations. I won't describe the process in detail, but anyone who's watched the Friends episode where Ross tries to maintain a conversation with Phoebe’s husband Mike, will have an idea of the suffering I go through. Of course, being the resourceful chap I am, I try various visual techniques of trying to steer my...umm...co-conversationalist's (I really have to find a better word!!) attention away from the talk. Techniques, for instance, like twitching my left nostril, raising my left and right eyebrows alternately and trying to look at the centre of my nose with both eyes simultaneously. I've never succeeded in the last one, but trust me; it does produce a startling visual effect. Only issue is, my friends are too dense to grasp the inner meaning behind all of this, and I've ended up with the reputation of being a cross-eyed twit.

So...there you have it. SB scores its final victory…my personal and professional life are in shambles, and I’m desperately trying to convince everyone I'm not one of nature's dim-witted freaks. Well, as I can see it...there's only one long-term solution to keep from being permanently misunderstood by all of humanity...keep blogging! ;-)

What ails modern tennis?

2006-08-04T23:17:00.000+05:30

In a phrase, the death of serve-and-volley. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. To give a long, winding introduction to the topic, this resentment crept into me while watching Wimbledon 2006. I have traditionally been a big fan of Wimbledon…it ranks right up there, along with ‘Friends’ as a must-watch feature….but I ended up being very disappointed this year. Somehow, though, the idea of penning my thoughts down never occurred to me until a few days ago, when I read on a friend’s blog his views on World Cup 2006.

Ok, ok, I admit it….I copied (not plagiarized, mind you) his idea and used it for my own selfish purposes and I’ve never had an original thought in my life! So what?? I’ve always been a firm follower of the ‘Copycat award’ policy. For those who’ve never heard of the copycat award (Shame on you! Shame on you!), legend goes that it was originated in GE, and is an annual award given to the employee who takes another person’s idea and makes the best use of it for his own (synonymous with ‘the company’s’ obviously) purposes. The concept of reusability and all that.

Anyways, to get back to the point, find it very distressing that someone (that someone being Roger Federer, in this case) can pretty much plant himself at the baseline, except for the occasional doubtful foray into the net, and still walk away with the crown. Negates the whole concept of Wimbledon, what? Wimbledon for me has always been about speed, quick reflexes, people rushing into the net like their life depended on it, deft touches, booming serves, etc etc.

Which brings me to my other favourite topic….Pete Sampras. Inarguably the greatest serve and volleyer of his time, and arguably the greatest of all time. I mean, the guy didn’t waste time dithering about on the baseline. He existed for the sole purpose of squashing his opponents to the ground, running through them like a locomotive on steroids and pounding them until their cries of “Mercy, mercy!!” could no longer be heard…..ok, ok….I’m getting carried away here….no more Texas Chainsaw Massacre for me!

But still…what a joy to watch! First, the unnerving of the opponent with the steely gaze, followed by the booming serve down the T, more often that not aimed at the linesman’s head (reminds me of that Scottish feller…what was his name…William something….who put an apple on his kids head and then shot it off) and if the poor unfortunate bloke at the other end, in the process of jumping out of his skin actually managed to get a hand to it, Sampras was right there at the net to finish it off with a powerful volley, or two at most. What clinical execution!
(Of course, after doing all that he loped back to the baseline with his tongue out and drooling onto the grass….but lets ignore that and concentrate on the tennis, shall we?)

Then consider Pat Rafter, another of my favourites, though not quite in the same league as Sampras. Anybody who wants to know what ‘Poetry in motion’ means just needs to watch him volley. Those nimble feet, quick hands and deft touches, the way he seemed to spin a spider’s web over the net so nothing could get through, could keep you enthralled for hours on end.

Contrast that with Federer. Ok, the guy does end up beating most others, but to do that he has to do a hundred things like run hither-thither around the court, chase down balls like a labrador retriever, flick his racquet this way and that, and when he finally gets tired of it all, hit some kind of outrageous winner…always from the baseline.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like Federer too, and was rooting for him against Nadal. I think he has a very effective serve, much like the Rafter serve, and particularly love that half-volley type shot he plays from the baseline, where he casually flicks the ball right off his feet with a ‘I don’t care where it goes’ look, almost like he’s giving catching practice to the ball boy, except that the dashed thing inconceivably manages to land as a winner.

What I can’t stand is when people start comparing him to Sampras just because he’s won 4 Wimbledon titles. The way they’re slowing the grass down, Chang or Muster could’ve won 4 as well. I mean, look at it, Nadal, who’s a sworn clay-courter, manages to reach the finals without breaking too much of a sweat, and again without ever really coming to the net. Which is why I think Sampras reaching the semis of the French Open was so much of a bigger achievement than Federer’s reaching the final will ever be. And a few years down the line, when they (God forbid!) slow down the grass even further, Federer and hundreds of others like him will start to win all 4 slams, further throwing dust on the achievements of the Samprases and Aggasis. Tis’ a cruel world, I tell you!

To further my case, when Federer walks on court, you think he will beat his opponent, you fully expect he will beat his opponent, but with Sampras, you just know. It’s like the law of gravity; if you drop a hammer, it falls. When Sampras walks out on center court, he wins. (In case you liked that line….its also part of my copycat collection, Spock said it on Star Trek). What I would love (me and the rest of the world, I guess) is to see Sampras in his prime take on Federer at Wimbledon….I can bet my last penny that all of Federer’s ‘magic’ couldn’t save him from the Sampras serve and volley. Hell, Becker would’ve pounded his ass, yet he only won 3 Wimbledons. The sheer injustice of it all, I tell you….

What I think they should do, is come up with a weighted average system to judge greatness. Attach, say, 10 points to each of Sampras’ and Becker’s wins, and keep reducing the points for each successive generation that the grass gets slower, then add up all the points at the end of a career to decide who’s greatest.

Well, anyways, that’s all I wanted to say, in the hopes that other like-minded people will one day read this and solemnly nod in agreement before carrying on with their days work. In the hopes that, one day, light will dawn on the who’s who (who’s that??) of Tennis Officialdom and they will revert the game back to its glorious heyday….when men like Sampras and Becker and Rafter walked the earth with their heads proudly lifted, and the rest of Mankind looked on and marveled…….

Oh, alright, alright…..I’ll stop watching Jurassic Park as well!

Trip to Hampi

2006-07-10T16:52:00.000+05:30

Since certain people, who shall not be named, recently accused me of writing "long long stories" that took all of their time to read, will cut short my wonderful, gifted prose and make this entry a visually aided one.

Let it not be said that I am not an accomodating man!!

The Hampi trip, incidentally, took place before the Shimoga trip, but posted the latter first since writing is easier than hosting pics. Big difference, since no one reads my blog anyways! :-(

Had recently joined up with 60kph (check out http://www.60kph.com/) and this was my first long group ride. Had an amazing time, apart from the fact that my engine seized again and I had to do 250+ km on a failed engine. But c'est la vie, kay sera sera and all of that. There's nothing like the experience of riding a bike with a deafening clankety-clankety-clank sound and having yourself overtaken by a cyle-rickshaw with an engine.

By the way, pics were all shot by Alin and Pramod, my co-riders, as I do not currently own a camera. I've taken it upon myself to give them free publicity. Alin, Pramod, if you've chanced upon this site in error, hope I've not violated any copyrights!

I know there's no captions, but have been trying to add them for ages and the format gets all screwed. If anyone's come this far and wants clarifications on who's who, please to be leaving comment and I will reply asap.

Trip to Shimoga

2006-07-06T18:57:00.000+05:30

Prologue:
Hardcore Pessimists certainly have one thing going for them, all they ever get is pleasant surprises. Some of the best moments in life come when you expect the ordinary and then have your breath taken away.

Beauty always seems at its best when you behold it for the first time. I'm referring to Nature here....but the same applies to Catherine Zeta Jones as well.

The occasion was my friend Pushkar's wedding, so had gone on a day trip to Shimoga to attend the engagement ceremony. Would've loved to take the Bullet, but it was still recuperating from its seized engine, so traveled by the more conventional means of train.

In case that sounded confusing, I wasn't referring to a heroic death by gunfight. In case this sounds confusing, you're allowed to give an exasperated shake of the head and read on.

Onward journey:
Had met up with Pushkar's college friends a couple of times, so joined up with them and took the Saturday night train. Good journey, had an auspicious start with us stuffing our faces at Comesum. By the way, never knew it existed till then, so that was the first good surprise. Will go there henceforth whenever I'm sloshed and hungry. Train journey was made interesting with a game of Bluff played till wee hours (very wee hours) of morning. Unsuccessfully tried to put on my best poker face but still managed to beat a couple of the guys.

Reached Shimoga and after finding our pre-booked rooms (and associated loos) not entirely clean, proceeded to check in to hotel Southern Comforts, found after a bit of running around.

Laughing Clubs and Talking Shutters:
While on the hotel hunt, chanced to pass by the Shimoga Laughter Club and decided to check it out. First time I'm seeing one....the folks there weren't really laughing their guts out (which was what I presumed these clubs were about), it was more like a rythmic "Ho-Ho-Ha-Ha-Ha" chant, done after every 5 min of exercising. Sort of like the old Vittalacharya movies.

After checking in, went about searching for Balaji Travels to book my return tickets. Found the office which was closed (it was around 7am then), but the bus cleaner outside insisted I book my ticket right then. He proceeded to bang on the shop shutters to wake the clerk sleeping inside, after which followed the most unique conversation I've held. The clerk would mumble through the closed shutter, the cleaner would listen with his ear close to the shutter and act as interpreter between us and the clerk. After a long conversation, which included deciding of the seat numbers, the shutter opened and I was able to procure my ticket.

Trip to Sringeri:
After a bit of discussion, decided to hire a cab and visit Sringeri, an old temple about 100 odd kms away. I'm not much for temples and wanted to see Jog Falls instead, but common opinion was that you couldn't get too close to the falls during the monsoons.

Glad we did it, though. The drive was through the most scenic roads I've seen in a long time. Profusion of greenery all the way, with some great views of the river Tunga. Lots of coconut, palm and arracknut trees. Nothing like the ghats in the monsoons. Missed my bullet every minute of the way...would've been a great ride for sure.

Agumbe:
Passed through Agumbe to pick up Bhatti, who had come there directly from Mangalore and then decided to stop for chai. Agumbe is supposed to be the Cherrapunji of the south, and for good reason. The constant slight drizzle suddenly burst into a storm. Great sight, with water literally falling sideways from the skies, and animals running for shelter everywhere. In the meantime, had something like a sweetish pakoda, generally called a 'bun'...absoutely awesome. Unfortunately there were only two of them to be shared between 6 guys. Incidentally, Agumbe is also the place where Malgudi Days was shot.

The wierdest P:
Strange coincidence or sinister message....I'll never know. During the drive, stopped for a leak break. Found a tree, closed my eyes and waited for the moment of bliss, was almost there...and then the skies beat me to it. Started pouring down out of nowhere, so I had to rush back to the car. Guess thats expected at times in the hills during monsoons, but the exact same thing happened the next three times we stopped!!! No sign of rain, then the sky would tinkle down just before I did. Finally took the hint and did it at the next indoor loo.

Sringeri:
The temple was fairly good...actually it was better than that but have had my fill of architectural ruins at recent Hampi trip. What I loved was the river Tunga nearby which was in full spate. The temple has steps leading down to it, for devotees to bathe etc...and water level being high had crossed some of the steps, with the result that you could just climb down the steps and have the water come up to ankle or even knee level. Again, wonderful glimpse of nature at its best.
Later on had the free lunch at the temple. Food was..well...sad...but I'm not complaining. I think its an exteremely good gesture to give free lunch every single day to whoever walks in...pretty unheard of, actually.

Kuvempu's house:
Stopped on the way back at the house of Kuvempu, who was supposedly one of the greatest figures of all time in Kannada literature. The house has been preserved and renovated, converted to a museum of sorts now. Its built in the traditional South Indian style with sloping roofs and multi-layered levels, sort of like a Pagoda, with an open courtyard in the middle, but looks spanking new due to the renovation. So gives you a unique glimpse of what a new house would look like in the old days.

Spent some time there, then climbed some nearby hills to Kuvempu's favorite writing spot, where he supposedly got the inspiration to write. Easy to understand why, when you look at the splendid views all around.

Engagement and daru session:
Made in back in time for the engagement. Engagement ceremony was quite nice, not too long. The guys took some funny snaps of Pushkar holding a yellow toy duck. Pushkar lived up to his reputation later on, when we went to congratulate the couple, by generally not introducing any of us to his wife. Shilpa actually had to interrupt his conversation and ask for intros. All I can say is...glad he has finally got someone to sudharofy him...just hope Shilpa doesn't get tired out minding him all the time :)

Proceeded to hotel Jewel Rock after engagement for a quick daru session before my bus. Had a nice time, as I usually tend to do whenever I'm with my beverage of choice. Said goodbyes a while later and caught my bus. Was in slightly tull state so popped off to sleep immediately.

Retrograde Amnesia:
Final interesting incident of the journey was when the bus stopped a few hours later for the leak break. Wandered about a bit, and then almost managed to get back into the wrong bus (it was the same colour and it was pitch dark outside). The conductor asked me where I was coming from, and to my horror couldn't remember at all. I kept thinking "Hampi Hampi" and just stood there like a total idiot. He then asked me to produce my ticket, after which things were clarified. Got into the right bus shamefacedly and slept again, and thankfully woke to my senses once we reached Bangalore.

Anyways, totally refreshed after the trip, and thats increased my resolution to do a 4-5 day ride in Kerala during the August 15th holidays. If Shimoga was this good, imagine what Kerala will be like during the monsoons!

Who created God?

2006-06-24T14:48:00.000+05:30

One of the few things I've spent a whole lot of time thinking about. Not something you can help, really, when this is one topic that seems universal to humanity. Pops up all over the place....when I see my grandmom fervently putting her palms together each time she passes a temple, when I glance across at my colleague who's got this huge tilak on his forehead, in most books I read, in art, films, everyday life....you name it, and there it is....devotion to God, faith in God, fear of facing 'His' wrath, etc etc.

A few minutes ago, chanced upon an interesting post by another guy called Kaushik on the same topic. I liked the way he categorized people into various classes based on their beliefs in God. In fact, thats what got me thinking about posting my own views on the subject.

Coincidence? Definitely. Divine coincidence, perhaps??.....Naah!!

What I always wonder about when I come across a piece of literature on God, is how the subject is always so....intellectualized...for lack of a better word. I know people who can go on and on weaving complicated, philosophical, intricated theories about who He is and what it means to have faith in Him.

I think the answer lies in doing just the opposite...shut off your brain for a moment...stop those millions of neurons crashing into each other at top speed (thats what they do, right??...thank God...oops..that I'm not a doctor).

No, I dont mean to sit and meditate reflectively and find your inner self. I mean...think you're an animal for a few minutes. A dog, perhaps, or an ape, or even better, a baby (human baby!). You dont find any any of these creatures wondering about God or the Supreme Being, do you? Caesar (my pet GSD) doesn't go rushing off to thank God when I get him a treat, nor does he blame God when he, say, gets a thorn in his paw. Instead, he comes running to me for assistance. Same with a baby...wails for its mom the moment something goes awry. Now, a dog has its master and a baby its mom, but who does the mom have?? Voila!! Enter God.

That, I guess, is my point. God didn't create Man....I believe Man created God. Just as a peron with MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) creates a false personality to cover up for his weaknesses, to be everything he's not, humanity created God to hide behind. The more I think about it, the more I believe it. Just like your false personality, God only really exists for most of us when we want Him to. When we need a source of strength in our moments of weakness, or when we need a comforting hand in times of trouble. He's also like the supreme parent that all of us seem to need but dont have...to 'handle the issue' when we have absolutely no solution for a problem or question, or when we are in need of the unconditional love that a parent provides. To repeat myself, a 10 year old runs to its mom for the above, the 'adults' among us realize our moms are not a good enough solution, so we run to God. Yet another reason is our need to have a ready explanation for everything. The ancients had no clue as to what caused lightning and thunder, so they conveniently painted a picture of Indra hurling down thunderbolts. There's other examples like the whole lot Norse and Greek Gods who no longer exist today, because they've outlived their usefulness. Instead, today we attribute the creation of the Universe to God because we still haven't figured out what actually created it.

So, do I think he's real? I think he is, inasmuch as the alter ego of the MPD patient is. He may not be a 'real person', but he breathes air, eats, drinks and has a wide range of emotions and thoughts. The point is he lasts only as long as he is needed, and then he does not exist. I believe it is the same with God, He will cease to exist once mankind does not feel the need for Him. Perhaps this sounds too...casual...but He will probably go out of vogue, He will be discarded as we do with most things we do not need. Just as Apollo and Zeus and Aphrodite who were once fervently worshipped are no longer around today, except perhaps in comic books. Like with all other things, He only exists today to fulfill a fundamental shortcoming in Man, which is our lack of self-belief. The day we believe that we are the ultimate solution, that we ARE the most powerful beings in this planet, and more importantly that WE should take responsibility for our actions and not pawn it off to someone else, I believe he will cease to exist. When will that day come? I'm probably guilty of reading too much science fiction or watching X-Men too often...but the next stage of evolution, perhaps??

As an interesting aside, was going though reviews of 'Phantoms in the Brain' by V.S.Ramachandran, where he associates all religious thoughts and spiritual insights with the temporal lobe of the brain, and cites instances where people who've had the temporal lobe removed also cease to have these spiritual thoughts.

Makes you think, doesn't it?

The perfect ride

2006-05-06T12:57:00.000+05:30

Several visits to the mech later, the Bullet was in much better condition. Apart from a few minor issues, more of irritants actually, was running quite well.

As usual, a combination of my laziness and 6-day working week had resulted in my not budging anywhere, to the point where I had an overwhelming urge to get out of town. Had a 2 day weekend on April 31st, so decided to do a solo trip to Chennai.
Most everybody I mentioned this to advised against it, given that it was my first long ride on an Enfield....that too a 10 yr old one I wasn't entirely used to yet. I was, however, set on doing it. my boss, incidentally, has this philosophy "Its better to do something thats not entirely right and regret it, than to not do it at all". I'm not sure about the efficacy, but it can be very convenient to follow at times!

So, set off bright and early...actually dark and early, in the interests of accuracy...at 5am. Now I know most Bangaloreans will find this difficult to believe, but I managed to reach Koramangla in 20 min flat. Throws some perspective on the traffic problem, doesn't it?
The ride was great. Very peaceful, to the point of being almost boring. Chose the Hosur-Krishnagiri-Vellore-Chennai route...NH46 and NH4 I think...which is a broad, well-maintained 4-lane highway for the most part. Heard the Chittoor road is much more scenic, but its a single lane highway, which I didn't want to risk, esp. in the dark, with my brakes not being entirely upto the mark.

Minor issues I faced were that the speedometer stopped working after the 1st 100 km or so, and the bike would start to stall (or 'miss' in mechs parlance) if accelerated beyond 85kmph. That was ok since I didn't want to strech the engine to its limits anyways. Slightly more concerning was a silly fall I had while getting the bike into a petrol bunk, which resulted in the clutch and lights console breaking and dangling off the handle. Fortunately there was a mechanic a few metres ahead who managed to fix it fairly easily.

Reached Chennai at about 11.30am, with a 45 min delay due to the fall, and congested roads on Chennai outskirts, on the Poonamallee and Porur districts.

Put up with my aunt and uncle at Guindy. Had a decent time there. Lots of philosophical discussions about Osho and his views, ranging from his ashram to family to the right way of parenting. Btw, they had me convinced that going to the ashram would be a fairly unique experience, so thats another entry in my things-to-do-before-I-die list (which includes things like skydiving, visiting New Zealand, having grass, eating lobsters and riding a superbike. As you can see, I'm a perfect fit in the hedonist category. To redeem myself, I've also added a few other things like writing a book, playing a chess tournament and reading up on both the Quran and the Gita). The Chennai weather was awful, though....all u want to do is find an A/C to sit underneath and drinks lots and lots of...umm...well...anything, so long as its cold.

Started back on Tuesday morning, 5am again, and the ride back was certainly more interesting. Felt rather exhausted and sleepy after about 3 hours ride (result of drinking upto 12am and waking up at 4am), so took a pit-stop at a Highway Motel. Forget the name..its on the right side of the road just after crossing the Ambur town....but very decent place. They advertise rooms and clean toilets...and the latter is actually true. They have a nice big restaurant as well, with decent crowd and good food. Had a humongous dosa and two cups of coffee for Rs. 25. Still felt a wee bit exhausted after that, but while starting the bike was accosted by a gentleman who also happened to be a Bullet enthusiast. He owned a Thunderbird and had gone on a Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty-Chennai trip a while earlier, so spent some discussing that, and agreeing that Enfields were great bikes. Its funny how the little things in life motivate you....that 5 min discussion was enough to get my enthu back to high levels and all eager to get back on the road.
Ride was good for another 50-60km, with some good scenery I hadn't noticed before. At one place there were hills almost climbing up off the road on the left, large grove of coconut trees on the right, flowers (bougonvilla I think) on the divider, and a series of hills on the horizon. Another place where there was a huge 'S' curve stretching about a km or so, with coconut trees on either side.

So, was chugging along feeling at peace with myself, and was about 45 km from Hosur when the bike started bucking like a bronco. Lowered speed but that didn't help, and some wierd clattering sounds later rolled to a halt. I noticed that the engine was smoking like a chimney, and there was a huge pool of oil all over the engine and the bottom of the bike. It refused to start again, and with my very limited knowledge of 'mechanicgiri' (limited to changing the spark plug and topping up oil), nothing I could do about it.

So, stuck literally in the middle of nowhere with a dead bike, hardly any tools, a phone that always kept running low on battery...with a bunch of monkeys on some broken down building behind me for company. So, did the only thing possible and stuck my thumb out to any trucks that passed by. A couple of good samaritans stopped but couldn't actually help. Finally, about 30 min later, an empty lorry did stop, and after a bit of bargaining, the driver agreed to load my bike on the lorry and take me to Hosur. So four of us actually lifted the Enfield up and put it on the lorry...something that I thought was not really possible...I sat atop the bike and off we went. Reminded me of this ad on TV a few years ago, where a car is loaded onto a bullock cart and trundles along.

Along the way, picked up some villagers - one guy and 2 ugly women (one of them had yellow teeth with red spots in between....blyeesh! Yuck!)- and proceeded to Hosur. Incidentally, the way they climbed up the lorry would make a Sherpa doubt his roots. So after a 40 min ride, dropped me off at Hosur next to a mechanic, who managed to get the bike started, and I drove it down very slowly to Blore. Finally reached there in one piece, the worse for wear, at around 2pm.

So, thats the sad end to this tale. The Bullet is lying at home with the engine totally screwed, and me using my trusty old Splendor...which I haven't sold just in case of emergencies like this. Planning to take the Bullet to the mechanic today, who will probably bleed me dry fixing the engine. But that, as they say, is another story....

My new old bike

2006-03-03T15:45:00.000+05:30

So the inevitable's finally occured. I've got myself a Royal Enfield - a classic Bullet Standard 350. Well....technically I haven't entirely got possession yet as the papers are with the mechanic, but short of him closing shop and running off somewhere, I can safely say the bike's
mine, mine....all Miiiinne!!!

Thanks to my colleague Robin, who's a bike/racing enthusiast and his neighbour Darren who's also passionate about Bullets for their help in ferrying me around the city looking at prospective candidates, riding the bikes and giving me their expert opinions while I stood by and gawked. On the flip side...if I find the bike is not to my satisfaction....I know who to kill!!

Ok, now that the mandatory vote of thanks (read boring stuff) is over, onto more exciting details. As mentioned earlier, this is a Standard 350, 1996 model, complete with the classic thumping sound, right side gears, contact points ignition with ammeter, decomp lever etc. Not one of the new 'almost-bullets' you get today. Got it for 16K, which I think is a decent deal. Bike, of course, is in dire need of servicing, repairs and body work. I already had my newbie Bullet initiation ceremony yesterday, when I exhausted myself kick-starting the bike for 20 mins. But that, as accurately diagnosed by Robin, was due to dirt in the carburettor and is fixed for now.

But enough with the monologue, here's some pics of the bike.

Note the rust on the front wheel. The wheel wobbles from side to side while riding, so one gets the impression the bike's doing a jig on the road.

The bike came with authentic Kannada number plates, to impart that Desi flavour, at no added cost. The bike, by the way, is originally from Bellary and was transferred to Bangalore.

Note the Saree guard with intricate designs, an excellent add-on to prevent my future Mrs from getting her nine-yard entangled in the wheel and choking to death.

The blind leading the blind - Thats Mukund giving me gyan on the Bullet.

Not too visible, but this is an excellent piece of memorabilia. If you squint hard enough, you can make out the previous owner's name, T. Narasimha Rao, etched out on the handlebar in Kannada, probably with a compass, like I did on my school desks in kindergarten.

Now, you just need to close your eyes to get the picture of Mr. T. Narasimha Rao, dhoti tucked above his knees, serenly riding the Bullet through the paddy fields of Bellary past herds of grazing buffalo, chased by children with snot running down their noses.

So, to quote those innumerable museum guides..."Its not just a bike, its a piece of India's own heritage".

Trip to Savandurga

2006-01-19T22:01:00.000+05:30

Planning for this trip happened immediately after the previous trip to Muthaya Maduvu. Met Nimish the same evening, and while plying him with the details, found out he was very interested in doing this sort of thing as well. I'd always wanted to go on another ride to Savandurga, after the fun we'd had on the first trip, so suggested it and he was game.

Decided to make it next Saturday, 14th Jan 2006, as I had a rare Saturday off for Sankranti. Landed up outside Koshy's at 9am. Decided to fuel the bike while waiting for Nimish. While at the petrol bunk, noticed a Royal Enfield zooming past, thump-thumping away to glory. Resolved for the 100th time to get me one of those, no matter what. By the way, not sure which model it was. Looked like a Thunderbird but was bigger...and noisier, as well. Anyways, drooled all over my li'l Splendor and filled it up (with fuel, not my drool). We started out after a great breakfast of bacon omelette and ham and egg sandwiches.

P.S : Personal opinion - Koshy's breakfasts are great, but not as good as Lakeview on M.G.Road. Lakeview is cheaper as well, so more paisa vasool.

To reach Savandurga, you need to get onto the Mysore Highway, then take a right to Magadi Road, and continue straight down for 65 km, past the Thippagondanahalli reservoir at 30km.

Easier said than done. I wasn't sure how to get to Mysore Highway, so followed Nimish's instructions and went down South Bangalore, took a right turn at Silk Board flyover and proceeded further. Well, thats the WRONG way to go. We covered half the city on the ring road, asked for directions a hundred times, before finding the turn to Magadi road near the Tumkur road. (If anyone has chanced on this blog and is looking for directions to Savandurga....there's no worse site you could have found. I'm the most confused bloke on the planet when it comes to directions. I totally lose my bearings when I take a U-turn on a straight road)

Anyways, after 25km of going around the ring road, got onto the right road and ventured forth. Somehow remembered from my earlier trip that it was a great ride, was disappointed to find it was not so entirely. Either the road had gotten worse, or memory was deceiving me. The first 10-12 km were just ok, passing through small towns, which by the way were very crowded as it was Sankranti...with sugarcane stalks strewn across the road.

Once we crossed those, though, the going really got good. Smooth roads, with picturesque scenery on both sides. Tried to rev up the bike, to find it wouldn't cross 70 unless there was a decline. Not bad, actually, for a 7 year old splendor...but again enticing thoughts of a Thunderbird rose to my head. One of these days ...........

We stopped a little further to take a few snaps of the Savandurga peak in the distance. Further on, the road turns to something like a ghat section, with an uphill drive over twists and turns. You can see the reservoir down on your right....a glimpse of azure blue waters between the trees and grassy slopes. Ok....so I'm not too great at describing nature, but it was truly good scenery, plus its a great feel to go at top speed across those twists and turns....it just takes a li'l bit of imagination to feel like you're driving to Ooty or Coorg or some other such place.

Reached the T.G.Halli dam a few minutes later and tried to get in, only to be confronted by a cranky old man who kept shaking his head and hand and saying "nahi, nahi, beda, beda"...or something like that. Turns out you had to take a ticket somewhere in the city to visit the place.

Pretty disappointing, considering the previous time we were there, we got through quite easily and had a good time at the dam. Really can't understand the way the government functions (assuming, of course, that it functions at all). What prevents them from setting up a counter there to sell tickets? Imagine folks coming up all the way there, only to be turned back because they didn't know about some obscure, unheard of department in the city that sells tickets! On one hand, there's all the talk of promoting tourism in the state, and instead of doing something constructive, like improving the condition of the roads, they go to great lengths to turn away folks who do brave the lousy roads to get to the so-called tourist spot.

Anyways, we carried on to Savandurga. Crossed a quaint little bridge a little after the reservoir, went past a few more winding roads, 30 km on to reach the outskirts of Magadi.

One interesting incident on the way. Was driving underneath a tree, when an insect dropped down from the tree, fell through my helmet visor, beneath my glasses and got wedged right against my left eye! Of all the odds! But as Nimish mentioned...there was some probability that it would happen. Thankfully wasn't going too fast, so managed to stop and pull it out quickly. Some kind of black insect with yellow stripes. Eye was hurting a lot, could barely open it for a few minutes. Considered letting Nimish drive for a while, but figured I'd drive for a few minutes to see if I could manage, and it started to get better.

Reached the Magadi town about 20 min later, where we had to take a left off the main road to reach Savandurga. Stopped for a few min to have some tea and pick up biscuits etc for lunch (apart from a small dhaba a little way ahead, there's no place nearby for a meal). Drove a little further down the road to pick up a couple of cans of beer, then went on to Savandurga.

Pleasantly surprised to find it was fairly deserted. I suppose most of villagers and the tourist crowd only come in on Sundays. So, with a look to the heavens for inspiration, started climbing.

Savandurga isn't like a typical hill, its more like one massive rock jutting out from the ground. So, atleast for the first half, its more like walking up a steep rocky slope than actual rock-climbing. Can get dangerous if you dont know the correct way up, as the slope gets almost vertical at places, and it being one smooth rock, its very easy to go sliding all the way down. Thankfully the government took this into consideration, and has marked out the path to take with white arrows drawn on the rock. Follow these and its fairly easy. Of course, this started us thinking about getting some chalks of our own and making wrong arrows, or ...being the city-slickers we are...signs for a U-turn, or perhaps 'one-way', 'no right-turn' etc...just to give a more Bangalorean feel to it.

The climb is probably the most difficult for the first 15% or so, and then gets a bit easier. We took one long break on the way up to finish one can of beer....probably that was what made the rest of the climb seem easy! We tried to find some hidden place so we wouldn't offend the religious types climbing up, and thought we succeded, until halfway through the drink, looked up to find people above having a clear unobstructed view of us. Anyways, soldiered on after that to reach the top.

The scenery, of course, is totally awe-inspiring. One interesting aspect is that views on different sides of the rock get revealed as you go higher, until finally at the top you can see everything around you. As my colleague Raahul remarked on the previous trip, "You just need to see this sort of thing to get an idea of God's handiwork". The view from the top is obviously the best. You can see a series of hills in the distance, that sort of go on continuously, layer after layer, to disappear behind the horizon. A river flowing around on all four sides adds to the splendour of the scenery.

So there's another attempt at describing Nature's majesty. As they say, try, try again until you bore the wits out of your readers. Well, sat down at the top for another refreshing snack of beer accompanied by biscuits (first-time combo for Nimish - biscuits with beer. To be honest....I'd prefer beer n' kababs any day, as well)

In case I neglected to mention (which I did) there's a nice little mandap at the top with a Nandi sitting in it. So great place to pray as well, if your religiously inclined.

Anyways, after a long rest at the top and having our fill of the view, started the descent to the bottom (and no, I do not mean that metaphorically). The climb down is fairly easy, although your knees do start to ache by the time you reach the bottom. After a few refreshments at the bottom (of the non-alcoholic variety), there was the ride back to Bangalore. Pretty uneventful, except for the fact that we again lost our bearings at Majestic and had to do a couple of rounds of the place before heading to M.G.Road. We were rather starved with no substantial meal the entire day, so had a sinful meal of Cornerhouse ice-creams and beef rolls at Fanoos. Then dropped Nimish off, and the last leg of the journey back home, through the usual Bangalore traffic, with an aching back and dreams of - you guessed it - a Royal Enfield.

Next trip....I dunno, yet. Been thinking of attempting to drive down to Bandipur, or perhaps even Bangalore-Chennai (maybe Pondy??), which I may be able to do if I take the train down to Chennai and start the ride there. But those are just thoughts as yet....lets see what works out.

Muthyala Maduvu - Pearl Valley

2006-01-15T16:01:00.000+05:30

It had been a while since our last outing, and I was itching to get out of the city for a while, probably go off on a small road trip. So when my colleague Venu approached me asking if we could organize something, jumped at the idea.

My first idea was to go rafting, but was unable to find something that didn't involve a 2-day trip atleast ( travails of a a 6-day working week! ). We'd practically settled on going to Tipu's Summer Palace, approx 60km away, when Venu heard of this place called Muthyala Maduvu, 40km from Bangalore, a sort of tourist spot with woods and a waterfall.

Planned to meet up at 8.30am Sunday, 8th Jan, so in true Indian style, left home at 8.30 and reached Venu's place by 9.00. Turned out none of the guys were ready yet, with most of them watching TV, and a couple of them fussing over a huge bowl of lime rice. Turned out they had news there was no food available at the place, so decided to take adequate precautions.

5 of us finally left, after breakfast at a local tiffin center, around 10.30 am, and after meeting with a 6th guy enroute, proceeded to the place.

The ride is nothing to write home about. We had to take Bannerghatta road and proceed further after crossing Bannerghatta park, via Anekal (I guess....am bad with names). Actually one of the worst roads I'd seen, potholes and loose stones the entire way. Wasn't like a highway drive at all, with us going in 2nd or 3rd gear most of the time. There were stretches where the road would suddenly become smooth, and we'd think the rough part was over and rev the bikes up, only to be confronted with the potholes a few metres later. Thank God it was only 40km!

The place itself is decent. There's a restaurant run by the Karnataka Tourism Board, with a couple of balconies that give you a good view of the woods. Found a couple of families playing soccer and chess there. After a refreshing cup of coffee, proceeded to the falls.

Tip: if you like a sense of adventure, don't take the well-trodden path. They have steps laid out down upto the falls, but Venu and me decided to skip those, and climb down the rocks instead. A bit slippery, but great fun! We landed up at a stream leading out from the falls, and went up-river for a while, clambering over rocks in the stream. When the stream thinned out and disappeared into the ground, clambered back to the falls.

The waterfall is actually quite small.The river (stream, actually) apparently originates from some underground source nearby, and falls down a cliff creating a small pool at the bottom. Meanders again away from the pool and disappears somewhere. None of the loud roaring noise or foam you associate with a typical waterfall. On the good side, you can wade into the pool and have a shower right under the fall. (I couldn't do it as I didn't bring a change of clothes)

Got bored after a while of sitting around, so decided to try and climb up the cliff, along the waterfall. Again, advantage of a small waterfall; none of the rocks was slippery, and there seemed to be sufficient hand and footholds. So Venu, one of his friends and I started up, but the friend (Ramesh...or Praveen??) soon felt it was risky and stopped.

Venu and I continued up, and turned out to be one of the most fun things I'd done in a while. Felt a bit like Stallone in Cliffhanger at times ;-) . Not really dangerous, especially with V along. The guy seemed an expert climber, probably was a mountain goat in his previous avatar! He' d go jumping up the rocks ahead, and pointing out the easiest routes while I followed at a more sedate pace. Great views along the top, plus I always feel a thrill when I see everybody down there looking like ants. No feeling like being alone in a scenic spot, being one with nature, with city life far behind you...plus of course the adrenaline rush of doing something dangerous and physically demanding. Would've been perfect if I had some beer, ofcourse (tip: beer tastes best when had under a waterfall) but had forgotten to bring any. We climbed upto the very top, upto the path leading up to the restaurant, and then came back down. Getting down was a tad more difficult, with me slipping down at a couple of places, but again with V to help me out, reached the bottom in one piece.

On the way down, noticed a girl bathing under the falls. Turned out most of our guys were suddenly feeling extremely sweaty, and had this urge to bathe as well. Not that I'm suggesting anything...pure coincidence, of course! So after they did that, shooting lot of snaps along the way (of themselves, of course) we sat down to a good lunch of lime rice and curds, with feet dangling in the water, surrounded by a lot of monkeys eyeing our food. After that, walked up to another place where there was supposed to be a second falls...but turned out to be nothing, plus there was a guy there who'd gotten drunk and was puking his guts out, so turned away quickly.

Wound up after that. There was a small road leading up from the restaurant, so drove there, and came up to a grassy plain, with a few trees scattered around. Sat there chit-chatting for a while, and then there was the bone-jarring ride back to Bangalore.

All in all, Muthyala maduvu is a decent place, (notwithstanding the road) although I expected something more, going by the name. Quiet peaceful little place, and not too many tourists around. Kind of sedate, though, so may be a let-down if one is the adventure-loving kinds. Unless of course, you're enterprising and create your own adventure, the way we did :-)

Next post - My ride to Savandurga with Nimish.