Hills

(Self-indulgent original version of something that appeared in print today - on Friendly Advice, put up in two posts)

The most vivid memory is of the light. The moon swinging between the hills on its way down to the horizon, while the moonlight hung in the air, glowing, translucent, liquid yet at the same time crystalline, brittle. Driving through a dream in that hour before dawn, as the car swung and swung again, on the road reaching upwards through the dark of the pine-shadows and the patches of hazy moonlight through the mists.

Morning came in primary colours. The shadows of the hills sharp on the opposite slopes, brilliant sun glinting off roofs far far away, lighting shades from the grave darkness of the trees to the playful green of grassy meadows. A distant ridge with its top sliced neatly off, the new airstrip for Shimla. Fly in there and then drive two hours into town? Much better to take the good old Kalka Mail overnight, snug under the sheets with a book in the upper bunk, lifting the flap on the reading light for a delicious hour while the man in the opposite lower snores softly and the train sways and grumbles over points. Then the drive up, revelling in the chill that creeps in as the car climbs, deciding against a smoke in the pre-dawn dark because it would mean rolling down the windows. Waking to find the sun well up, and stopping at a roadside dhaba for sweet milky tea

And bread ­pakoras. Comfort food from the ‘80s, when they’d be a hurried breakfast at Barog while the engine snuffled and snorted to itself, like an impatient uncle exhorting a bunch of teens to get a move on. Sitting on the footboard, legs dangling, flinching as the tiny train bustled through one of the 108 tunnels on the line up.

The story goes that Col. Barog was in charge of this section when the railway was being built back in 1903. He started work on a tunnel from both ends so as to save time. The shafts didn’t meet, Col. Barog was fined one rupee by the Govt. and committed suicide from sheer humiliation. Our present-day technocrats have less extreme reactions. Fortunate. Or maybe not?

The sprawl of buildings comes into view from miles out. Gorton Castle smug and four-square in the centre of the ridge, the turrets of the Army HQ newly painted an arrogant red. The town is older now and the lines of age have begun to show. More crowded, dirtier, more concrete and glass, more scabrous unpainted heaps sprawled on the slopes like ragged deadbeats. The traffic is bad on the main road, worse out in Chhota Shimla and Sanjauli. Parking is a nightmare, it takes ten minutes to back and fill into a parking lot through the crowd of impatient Puppans up from the plains. The Mall is fenced in with rods, something was on last night and now they’re dismantling the barricades, very morning-after.

But the sun is out and eventually, at 10 o’clock or a little after, Shimla is on its way to work. The women in neat bright salwar suits, quick-eyed and bright-cheeked, most of the men in ties, geared against the fickle weather in sleeveless woollen vests, greeting friends without breaking stride as they take the slope in that unhurried gait that still eats up the distance. Lots of bakeries, above them all (in location if not in quality) Baljee’s on the Mall next to the statue of R.S Parmar. Shops selling cameras, film, Kumaoni clothes, ‘vegetable burgers’, silverware.

Out on the northern edge of the Ridge, the breeze comes in under the cedars. a jacket seems like a good idea. Terraced fields and farmhouses sweep into the distance, but the immediate attention is grabbed by the sprawl of Lakkar Bazaar below. This is Shimla’s standard tourist trap, the curios and handicrafts pitch. A little time spent poking among the fretwork screens and faux antique hookahs can turn up a good bargain. A tiny hand-carved hollow ball turns out to be a cunning candle-stand, a walking-stick’s head unscrews to reveal a little gold-specked fob-watch. A much better idea than the supposed ‘local’ woollens that are in any case cheaper in Ludhiana. Where they’re made.

Up from Lakkar Bazaar is Kipling’s Hill of Jakoo, topped by its Hanuman Mandir. It is a moot point whether Hanuman’s physical form was closer to the langur or the common macaque, but there is no question which tribe rules here. Gangs of rhesus monkeys prey on the unwary and intimidate even the careful tourist. Locals tell horror stories of monkeys who will wrest away a camera bag or a dangling key-chain and return it only when bribed with chick-peas or bananas. The climb is steep, a lung-burning, leg-cramping ordeal even for the fit. All in all, only for the very brave or the very devout.

In the other direction lies hedonistic pleasure. Shimla’s Middle Bazaar is ugly when viewed from afar, but a stroll through the winding lanes (winding in three dimensions, stairs and little footpaths connecting different levels) is richly rewarding for visiting foodies. Between two landings lies a tiny place known to generations only as Auntie’s. Not for the faint-hearted, this is a no-nonsense ‘authentic Chinese’ joint where take-away is definitely the better idea. And very satisfying. The other gem here is Sardarji’s sweet shop, where an early morning visit yields ambrosia – fresh jalebis broken up in a huge steel tumbler of hot milk. Bliss well worth the penance of an extra mile on the hill roads.

The noise and fumes fade as the lift glides up. A huge suite, coffee, signs warning guests to keep the doors and windows closed for fear of monkeys. And from the balcony, the expanse of the southern ridge and the town, the valley still cut in half by morning shadow.

The day clouds over as the seminar winds towards lunch. A couple of quick showers come and go. The TV tower on the opposite hill gleams in the sudden dark, the roads and roofs gleam with the run-off. Then after lunch the heavens open and the rain pelts down for hours. Where do the monkeys go in this downpour? Water splashes over shoe-tops during mad rushes across the terrace. A persistent man keeps sopping up the puddles in front of the lift, only to see them grow again in seconds. The roof resounds with the insistent drumming. The valley vanishes behind a curtain of cloud and spray. Rain in the hills is not for the faint-hearted.

Afterwards, soft as a lover tender in the afterglow, the faintest of breezes creeps into the chill of the evening. The stars come out and settle on the hills, sprinkled on the slopes all the way down to the valley and up into the sky.

West of the Mall, past the Gothic fantasy of the Army HQ, where a 50 foot wide road is christened Chaura Maidan or ‘wide field’, the Oberoi Cecil is a lighted fantasy. A lane leads off Chaura Maidan, through moss-hung oaks and deodars, to Yarrows. Originally designed (or re-built?) by Herbert Baker for a friend, the Staff College of the Indian Audit & Accounts Service is possibly the most picturesque training facility in India. It even has a most incredibly wondersome phenomenon, modern additions by the CPWD that blend in with the traditional! Old teak staircases, mahogany furniture and a lovely low-roofed billiards room. All this around a central lounge that looks out over a stone-flagged patio leading onto a lawn from where (on the mandatory clear day) one can see all the way to the white hairs of the Dhauladhars.

But we were at the Cecil. Mohan Singh Oberoi’s second acquisition, this imposing pile has been recently restored to its old glory. A five-storied wood-panelled atrium glows above the lounge, the restaurant looks out over the valley where the lights shimmer all night. Pankaj serves smoked chicken and Kullu trout from the ice-water streams. But the restaurant is empty by half ten. At eleven, the lights are dimmed in the atrium and not a soul stirs except the desk manager and the turbaned doorman. Shimla goes early to bed.

Flying. Also, not.

It’s a little like being inside Google Earth. From 30,000 feet the earth is richly detailed, a luxe version of the ‘physical’ (as distinct from ‘political’) maps in a school atlas. Only, as the plane rises farther, there is no guide to scale. There are no names printed on this map, no margin with answers to the questions that rise.

What is this river, flowing north and then east, its course dry with sand, traced only by little veins of water even in October? Why are some of those fields so richly red while the others are green-brown? Why are all the lakes straight-edged with dams on their northern sides? Parallel ridges run (presumably) west to east beneath the belly of the plane. Do they have names, are they full-fledged ranges or just taken for granted by the people who live in their shadow, nameless parts of their lives? Old water-courses are betrayed by their dark earth, the silt of centuries rich below the stark upper reaches of the plateau.

Off near the horizon, a sweep of tumulo-cirrus looks like a fish in motion, right down to the scales and flexed tail. Shadows. On the ground far below, shadows of the fluffball clouds that float beneath us. Layers of perception? Perhaps only layers of sight, but still, texture, dimension, even revelations. Suddenly, I want to be down there among the reeds on the shore of a lake, shading my eyes as I look up to see a cloud crossing the sun, the shadow cool, almost thirst-quenching in the October breeze and the respite from the day’s heat.

Or perhaps I’m better up here, sailing in a vessel of the sky, savouring a hot buttered croissant slathered with honey while I pontificate on the landscape below. No question. Given a choice, comfort over adventure any day.

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Comfort.

NOT a term to associate with that airport. If the queue had been any longer, I could just have walked into it from the hotel door. IF one can find the end of the line, which snakes around on itself like a politician’s explanation. This, mind you, was just to get into the terminal. There was another line after check-in. A super-line. It stretched, it looped, it doubled, it split. It was one line trying to encompass the entire universe of queues. About 57,328 people, several thousand bawling kids, half a million large lumpy bags, trolleys that rode into my ankles. We moved a couple of feet every alternate year, I felt like I was putting down roots and wondered about the legal status of my retirement if it came around while I was still in line. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the occasional Galapagos tortoise or stegosaur lumbering along. THEN they asked us to trot over to another gate instead. That man has no idea how close he came to being disembowelled.

What is wrong with these people anyway? They can take over the IT world, get all the chavs and yobs and rednecks frothing, generate a billion dollars of revenue in a quarter, but they can’t see they need more security gates and personnel at the airport? The other airport has been in process for 6 YEARS now. What are the specs, are they planning for a space-shuttle landing? A LAUNCH, even? Morons!

More fun and games once ON the flight. Three of us had boarding passes for the same seat. The emergency row was full. Were we supposed to strap-hang all the way back to Cal?

Then I got an upgrade. And cold towels and orange juice and pillows and stuff. And, of course, buttered croissants and loads of honey. Which led to transformation from Stegosaurus-in-bad-mood to Bear-in-hunny-tree.

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And ruminations. On things nice and not-so-nice.

Traffic, NOT nice. Definitely not nice. More like a bleeding nightmare, even past ten at night.

Jumbo prawns at Karavalli, very nice. Also the fish in the cascade pool outside, all yellow and orange and flashing, like those lines in Tartary and the illustration on the glossy page of an old old Radiant Reader …”and in my pools great fishes slant / their fins athwart the sun”. (Appams not-so-nice, though. Still have not found any place that matches Konkan Café and Chef Solomon)

Nice – the very polite signs that request ‘road-users’ to try an alternative route because there’s a Metro being built along MG Road. Not nice – a hoarding opposite the airport that shows a distinctly cross-eyed Jack Nicklaus. Faintly irritating – a HAL hoarding that says they are now ‘soaring and spreading their wings’. Surely they got that in the wrong order? (I loathe lazy copy anyway)

Nice – a suite looking out on a park and trees, with yellow flowers nodding outside the window. Very nice – mellow evening sunshine on the opposite wall and a cup of cream coffee with Frank Simoes’ Goa for company. Even nicer – some time up on the 13^th floor at Barton Centre, they served green apple vodka and played Sultans of Swing.

Very very nice – two visits to Blossom, coming away with two Camilleris, a Dibdin, Mark Shand’s River Dog, Bryson, Barry, the complete Woody Allen and – oh crackers and cream cheese! – Patrick Leigh-Fermor’s A time of gifts. Blossom, what a treasure, what a delight. Enough reason in itself to move to this city.

Though there are some others ...

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Some dinners

The waiters (refreshment supply executives?) at Rodeo in Connaught Place are all tall. They wear black shirts and trousers, black boots. Most execrably, they wear black hats, the kind one buys off barrows in Bangkok. INDOORS at that! I’ve read of saloons where those hats would be shot right off. Maybe with the head still inside … But these guys are nice. They bring you food.

I remember the leg of lamb at Rodeo from some years ago. Tender, succulent, served with baby potatoes and greens, a pot of sour cream and two kinds of hot bread. This time round, we were too famished to wait for the main order. Chicken wings, two minutes. In short order, we got … wings, minute. Four of them. Was the guy being funny? The leg of lamb, when it arrived, made up for our early disappointment. To judge by the size, the lamb in question must have pumped iron. Enough to feed three normal people, i.e., just about enough to keep us from starving before breakfast. As good as, perhaps even better than memory. I asked for herb butter and got it. Also enough sour cream to curdle an entire dairy. Most satisfying.

Given that the entrée was about 25 times as substantial as the starter, I expected a ginormous bill. The lamb was 500 bucks. DOWN from 4 years ago (when it was 700)? Weird, but who am I to complain? Waddled out feeling like an anaconda with the tapir's hindquarters still sticking out of its mouth. Totally happy. After a few double espresso shots at the nearest CCD, I was ensconced in nostalgic comfort in an upper bunk on the Kalka Mail. Peace, memories, repletion.

Friday night in Shimla, a chill breeze gusting under a sky washed clear of rain, I took a family friend to dinner at the Cecil. Pankaj served us smoked chicken with honey mustard dressing. Nice, but the chicken had obviously been refrigerated and not hung. It affects the texture. Also some maas ke sooley, lamb skewers, very good indeed. Followed by lamb chops (a trifle dry. He did have to re-heat them, but it shouldn't have been too difficult to keep the juices in) and grilled Kullu trout with lemon butter. I entirely approved.

Saturday morning was beautiful, Saturday afternoon eventful. I can't tell you about the morning for fear of the Most Formidable Girl-Child (who holds that if she offers to buy my work it gives her seigneurial rights over just about everything else too; I don't contest that as long as she's on the other side of the country). This picture will have to suffice.

But the afternoon, gadzooks! What should have been a leisurely ramble down the slopes became a sweaty anxious re-take on Sholay. Ummm … after the Ram Gopal disaster, that’s a frightening analogy, but somehow more apt. We’d left Shimla with loads of time to make the 5:30 train from Kalka. Even stopped to kill some time (and eat some sheekh kababs) at a nice place (some ‘ghat’, there’s a private university coming up a couple of hilltops away), had a couple of coffees and a stretch. Snoozing and rubbernecking took us down, the milestone said ‘Kalka 5 km’, we had 45 minutes in hand, then we come round a bend and BIM! The next 5 kilometres are one continuous snarl of traffic.

There’s just one road connecting the Kalka rail-head to the hills. And traffic is heaviest on weekends. So obviously the best time to repair this only road is … what, late at night? On a week-night? (Insert disparaging chuckle) Chhora bakhla gya re! Of COURSE we do it in the middle of a Saturday, how else will people SEE how hard we’re working? Tar-wagon, roller, sundry large ugly machines parked in series on a 200 meter stretch of new macadam, NO traffic police anywhere in sight, nosirree, just a bad-tempered trucker’s sidekick waving a rag on a stick and 3,946,502 vehicles honking at the hills. Strewth.

We managed to catch up with the train at Chandigarh. And the food looked better than Kingfisher’s. Trains have pantry cars, after all.

Things improved rapidly once in Delhi. The Akhond is an impeccable hostess (though she harps too much on the theme of not having cooked for underfed waifs like me) and there were many interesting people there. Including one person whom I’d hitherto considered an Urban Myth. There was Smirnoff, which was improved by an experiment (next time I’ll add peach chunks instead of pineapple). There was, albeit briefly, a whole raan from Karim’s. For graphic details, there’s the Griff’s Facebook album. There was also some substance abuse, followed by One Fat Bong going Out like a Light. One is told that a Certain Duck has Taken Photographs, but the possibility is Too Horrible to Contemplate. Oh well.

Once back in Calcutta, there was also a nice evening at La Cucina, thanks to Slim Friend who Has His Own Food Show. Zanuso, the new chap at La C, is yet to prove himself the equal of Davide. Davide was Good. I shall go further, he was DaGoods. His carbonara … if there is better, I am yet to come across it. Mario has his own constraints. For one thing, he’s Piedmontese, not Neapolitan; he can make lighter pizzas, but for antipasti, pasta, pastry, you need the Southern touch. AND he has been Ruined by London. But he shows promise.

After which, there was a bitch of a week. Never home from office before 9. But I had been fortified by good times, not to mention good friends. Rajarhat is full of kaash phool. And Mohalaya is Wednesday morning. Life holds hope.

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A word in defence

The leading news story in Bengal now is the death of Rizwanur. Found dead by the railway tracks, after weeks of harassment because he had married a rich man’s daughter. Something is very wrong. A man I respect asked me to join a candle-light vigil demanding justice for Rizwanur. I couldn’t because I wasn’t in town and I wouldn’t because my service rules are iffy on the subject, but of course I want justice.

But not a witch-hunt. We are free to surmise what happened, what went wrong. I have my own ideas. From all accounts, Rizwanur was a very fine young man and his death is a loss not just to his immediate family but to all of us who value decency, humanity and hard work. The media circus, however, is turning the matter into a jatra, a melodrama that depicts only one side and presumes that all those named in connection with the affair have complicity in his death.

But … I know personally two of the three IPS officers whose names have come into the discussion. One I have met several times – soft-spoken, polite, helpful and from all that I’ve seen, a decent person. The other has been a colleague and is a friend. I have trusted him with my life and would do so again. Not only is he a fair and decent man, he also respects the law he works for. On one occasion many years ago, he pulled me back when I lost my temper in a conflict situation. Not just because it might have sparked further conflict, but also because he believed – and he told me this – that as an officer, violence should be my last resort.

This man is not a murderer. I’ll stake anything on that.

****

Update: A friend in a GoI police organisation pointed out that –

· A hired killer is more likely to operate under cover of darkness than in broad daylight

· It is common practice for such killers to dispose of the body far from the site of murder (sometimes even in another state) rather than leave the body at the site

· People under stress may have sudden suicidal impulses

· There were several procedural irregularities on the part of the police, starting with the fact that the matter lay within the jurisdiction of the West Bengal Police and not the Calcutta Police Commissionerate

The Telegraph today asks why the focus has shifted to punishing the police officers instead of finding out how Rizwanur died. I agree. Justice is not served by branding scapegoats.

And I say again, my friend is not a murderer.

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Death shall have no dominion

This is the most stirring experience. Check it out. It’s long, four videos, but it should make a difference to your life. Dr. Pausch, you're an awesome person.

(Off ABC News.)

Very desultory

After two mornings spent vegetating, I’m just about going out of my mind with boredom-compounded-by-lassitude. There’s a heap of things I should get done, but I don’t have the gumption to get up and DO them. For further irritation, rediffblogs is down again and my other blog with it. Garn.

But … do any of you know that feeling of finding again a favourite piece of writing you thought you would never retrace? The Rupa Laughter Omnibus, edited by Ruskin Bond, has its flaws (including too much Bond, f’rexample). But it also has Richard Middleton’s The Ghost Ship, a little gem of a tale I remember from a childhood book of sea stories. There was a time I used to hum Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield to myself when I was feeling down. And the daft boy’s little story of the parrots-whose-language-was-awful is one of the best short-shorts I know. I’ve linked to it. Enjoy.

And will some kind soul direct me to some regularly updated site for good time-pass reading? Bloglines, Cricinfo, the NYT, I’m getting a little sick of all of them.

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Good night and good luck

Unbelievable. They did it. These kids did it!

I was wary even after Yuvraj’s blitz. Even when that Moy-Danab Matt Hayden was carving air, ball after ball from Sree. Then that over from Joginder Sharma when Matt and Symonds started connecting, I thought it was the beginning of the end and started the drive home. When I switched on the telly at home, surprise! Oz needed 22 to win from 5 balls!

That catch by Yuvraj (and his caveman roar). Two wickets in the over for Joginder Sharma. Beating Australia in a semi-final. After Pakistan, England and South Africa. When do we wake up?

Even before we won, this match was a special experience. Yuvraj batted like .. well, for me, only one man is The King. Isaac Vivian Alexander, Smokin’ Joe, the Ultimate Blastah. Tonight Yuvraj laid a finger on his throne. It wasn’t about the sixes, not the pull with which he opened his account, not the one he flicked off Brett Lee. It was the attitude, the utter confidence. I don’t know what he’s on, but he should try more of it.

India’s fielding. Even the return catch that Bhajji dropped in his second over. That would normally have been a four against an Indian fielding side. Harbhajan nearly made it a wicket.

And Sreeshanth’s bowling. Beating Hayden for pace at least 3 out of 6 balls, bowling 4 overs for 12 runs and 2 wickets. Go, Mallu, go go!

Just for the record, the match was sweetened by pastis. On ice, with a squeeze of lemon. Very very good. Superb food cooked in-house by the people who run Eu Chu. For those who don’t know this place on Ganesh Avenue, please don’t bother. We’re more than happy to keep it to ourselves. Good Cockburn’s port after dinner, with a pipe of MacBarren, drawing well. And friends of three decades singing Tull, S&G and the Beatles while T* played the guitar. Life is good.

Good luck for Monday, boys.

****

Bombay - bloggers, blues

The far wall is a palette of greys. Picture window, framing clouds sky sea rain air road. All grey. Shades. Crows like scraps in the wind, trying to land in a tree with clumps of large vivid green leaves. Rain in the air, glimmering on the ground, on the newly paved sea-walk along Marine Drive. Across the bay, the jagged-teeth skyline of Malabar Hill rises from a tumulus of green. Three dogs strut along the sea-wall in single file. Three men in singlets run the other way. Two men, standing in a tiny red and white boat, do mysterious things among the waves. A couple under one of those bright seven-panelled school umbrellas, bright amid the grey. And a horizon where the pensive sky sighs into the sea.

****

The previous night, in the Sports Bar at Phoenix Mills, was a stark contrast. Well, perhaps not stark. Mellow, more like. In the room people came and went, but I didn't hear anybody discussing Michelangelo. Demands centred round beer and sixes. I sat in a corner with sundry Bright Young People whose numbers ebbed and flowed.

Before one Mr. Y. Singh obtruded on our collective conscious, the conversation was wide-ranging.

· The intricacies of marital and extra-marital fidelity, with special attention to shameless flirting. ('Shameless', apparently, applies only when the flirting is Directed at Men because the only fidelity worth the name exists between females. Don't ask. I didn't.)

· The natural orbits of B-school graduates. With and without lungis.

· How weird is jute? (This was repeated at intervals despite a Ban on Talking Shop.)

· How exactly does a vada cut? (By the time we left, there was a common consensus among the girl-children that the vada did cut it, thank you very much.)

· Marxism crept in, from echoes of his opening line to T.S. Eliot – 'Tom, I had no idea you were so handsome!' - to 'I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have ME as a member.' (We refer, of course, to Groucho, not Karl.)

· The Most Formidable Girl-Child was very silent. One feared the Lull before the Storm, but apparently it was just exhaustion. (On three wheels, presumably)

· Whether Rama’s (yes, the famous bridge-builder’s) first name was Aiyyo. And whether he had an unknown brother named Aiyyiyyo. (We have no claims to serious research. Well, research perhaps, but serious?)

· The Ubiquity of Udupi. And thayeer sadam as comfort food, also why it is not available in Lower Parel.

· Ambitions (or the reality) of World Domination, since e-Bay AND Google were represented at the table.

· How men are like blogs, insofar as they can be put up (or put up with) and shut down.

· India as the world's richest source of ethnic jokes (or adhnik jauks, aythneek jokes, uthnuk joks etc.)

· Having to produce ‘virginal certificates’ for vaarrfikayishun at Anna Univaaiirrsitee.

· Who had the raspberry vodka? Umm OK, that wasn't really a TOPIC, more like a revelation. The other realisations were that A Man is as funny in person as on his blog. And that one should not comment on people who stop at nothing e.g. throw truck-loads of popcorn.

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My first meeting was at 11. We reached early, went through Trial by Negativism, packed up and were out by quarter past. Back in my room, I should have sorted my papers and packed my bag. Instead, I sat by the window with more coffee and watched a wan sun soak into the sea-scape. Then checked out with a wistful backward look and joined the rush towards the airport. Onwards and upwards, so to speak, but with a pit-stop at the site of the previous night's carouse to make the acquaintance of a tender cow (cf: The Restaurant at the End of the Universe). Bombay gets better each time I visit.

Blur

Three weeks or thereabouts. Hectic travel, sudden summons, day-long meetings. An evening in Delhi that stretched into the wee hours, ending with the retrieval of a cell-phone. A spiral staircase up a 60-ft tower, leading to a honeymoon suite - children not permitted because the railing on the staircase has large gaps. A winding evening highway at 100 km.p.hr., the road lined and outlined with bright reflectors that put me firmly back in 1979, thrilled by the first arcade 3D car games. A would-be MP in Business Class, pulling up page after page on his laptop to explain why the Hyde Act is pernicious.

Walking down from the 8^th floor of the Chennai Secretariat, each landing is a sudden flowering of women in bright saris, flowers in their hair, seated in circles upon sheets of newspaper in front of the lifts as they eat their lunch from round steel dabbas. It seems such an orderly and bonhomous arrangement that nobody grudges the lifts being shut down.

The Hotel Dupleix in Pondicherry, stone floors and period furniture, louvred windows framing bougainvilleas and tiled roofs. The meal was superb – fresh seafood platter, fried fish crumbed in ground curry leaves, duck in a local variation of brown sauce, a risotto and lasagna (there were four of us!). The duck, in particular, was a revelation – tender, almost flaky, succulent, complemented by and not drowned in the spicy sauce. Dessert, alas, was cold, dry and crumbling. And contrary to what I had heard, there are no local wines.

Then the summons that put paid to my plans - of an evening on a roof-top in the sea-breeze, sipping from my nip of Smirnoff green apple flavour. A hurried return, three bleary high-pressure days handling a workshop and Visitors from On High, the satisfaction of not having allowed any grounds for criticism, a sense of unfairness at an unjustified rebuke but stifled in the interests of long-term peace. And preparing to party as soon as their flight took off.

This weekend is particularly sweet.

(We may return to our scheduled programming over the next few days.)

Monday blues on Tuesday afternoon

The Times of India reports (Sunday 26^th August) that the Marwari Sabha felicitated Arvind Singh Mewar, the ancestor of Maharana Pratap. Longevity!

A search for Victoria Falls on Google Earth produces Victoria Falls, Georgia, USA. You thought the Middle Kingdom was a fantastic conceit?

And listening to the Moody Blues’ When the tide comes in while driving to office, on a cloudy morning with the breeze feathering the waters, is NOT a good idea. Puts paid to work. (Especially when I view this video and reminisce on a walk along that same route some years ago. Lousy version, though.)

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Creativity

God save the USA.

Doesn't seem anybody else should bother.

The lack of cojones

Growing up, the term ‘innings defeat’ became familiar the wrong way. With India losing. By the time India’s team started winning, in the 80s, ‘follow-on and innings defeat’ were what we hankered for. To make up for all the times Sunil Gavaskar had to stand among the ruins, to make up for all the times an India captain would lose with grace. Oh, we wanted it so bad – for INDIA to not only WIN, but to grind the opposition into the dust.

Rahul Dravid is one of the greatest batsmen to play for India. I’d go so far as to say he is one of the best batsmen ever. Definitely one of the most complete, correct and graceful right-handers, straight out of the copy-book. He looks so good with that full follow-through, I can sit and watch him play defensive strokes for hours. And a fighter. No bravado, very under-stated but one of the gutsiest and toughest men to stand in the middle of a cricket field with the India crest on his helmet. This is the one man we’d all want to be at the wicket if our lives depended on it. True Grit. Possibly India’s best batsman since 1998. Rahul Dravid, The Wall.

Rahul Dravid, the schizo. Because he’s not only a batsman, but also the captain of India. And not just any captain. One of the most limp-wristed, gutless, back-pedalling cricket captains to have ever led any country. With England 319 runs behind and almost six full sessions of play remaining, Mr. R. Dravid chose to NOT enforce the follow-on. With the cloud cover aiding swing, with the pitch still bouncy, he decided that India need to bat England out of the match. This from the man who before the first day’s play dusted off that old chestnut ‘Bat once, bat big’.

When I started writing this, India were 10 for 2. Now they are 11 for 3, with Sachin Tendulkar comprehensively bowled by Jamie Anderson off an inside edge.

Take it from the top, now.

Making England follow-on would have rubbed their noses in it. As Ravi Shastri said between the innings, it would have made a point. England’s batsmen would have been under pressure to bat long, make runs. Pressure brings mistakes. Mind-games? No thank you, Mr. Dravid would rather consult an actuary about his insurance policies. What do we have to lose?

What we have to lose, Mr. Rahul where-are-your-balls-when-we-need-them Dravid, is the match. Item, the cloud cover now would help swing. It IS helping swing, except that our bowlers aren’t getting any. Our batsmen are facing it.

Item, we lose time. India, batting now, have that margin of uncertainty as to what score will be big enough. With your no-risks policy, Mr. Dravid, our team has to bat that extra session, add those 50 extra runs, before they can declare. IF they’re not bowled out in a heap, which suddenly seems a possibility. Thus reducing the time that England have to survive through, giving our bowlers less time to knock them over.

Item, the other team gets a target to aim for. Once they know what the final Indian score is, they can always pace their innings. It’s no longer about survival. Hell, the way things are going now, they might even have a chance of winning it. If they do, Mr. Dravid, I hope you go on the Queen’s next Birthday Honours List. It would be the least they could do for the man who single-handedly revived the English cricket team.

Item, we lose the high, we lose the mental edge. Have you heard of the killer instinct, Mr. Dravid? Do you know what it is to be ruthless? Ask a man named Steve Waugh. Hell, ask Ravi Shastri, he’s the closest we have to an Aussie mind. What did Ravi say, Mr. D? ‘If you’ve got your man under water, hold him there. Why give him a chance to breathe?’ (Incidentally, Ian Chappell says the same.) What you’ve done, Mr. D, is bring him up and give him the kiss of life. What next, an oxygen cylinder? Balanced on your head while YOU stand underwater?

Yes, you had a good day yesterday. You called the changes, put men in the right positions. You have a brain, even a cricketing brain, no doubt about that. I don’t agree that it was inspired captaincy yesterday – for example, Tendulkar should have bowled earlier, bowled more – but it was good captaincy. Where you lose out, Mr. Dravid, is on leadership. Captaincy isn’t about strategy alone. It’s about heart. That jingle they play with your team colours, have you ever seen it? ‘Mind and body, heart and soul’. You have all that as a batsman, Mr. Dravid, even though you’re going through a bad patch now. As a batsman, you’re a stud. As a captain, you lack half of that. You lack the fire. As a captain, Mr. Rahul Dravid, you’re a wuss.

This was the chance you had to win big, Mr. Dravid. This was your chance to ride into the sunset with that big overseas win on your saddle-bow. You blew it. England may or may not win. A draw would be welcome to both teams now. That’s your contribution. Follow-on and innings defeat? Not against you, Mr. D. From a position where India were running hot, teeth bared, muscles itching, you have brought them back to being journeymen. When Kumble got Monty, we thought there could only be two results – India winning, or a draw. In true sporting spirit, you’ve opened the door for an England win. Bully for you.

Do us a favour, Mr. Dravid. When this is over, get some testosterone injections. And oh, a left brain implant might be a good idea too.

****

Update: I may have been just a little unfair. Apparently Zaheer Khan had a thigh strain. Not much sense bowling again when the spearhead is blunted. Drat. Nothing rankles like a wasted rant!

Weirdos again

There IS something about Delhi. Full-on Weirdo Watch. Like the guy who sits in the lobby of my hotel, next to the elevators. I see him sitting there at least once on every visit. And always, ALWAYS, dictating into a Nokia Communicator. This last time, I realised he had THREE of the damn phones – one in his hand and two on the table next to his open laptop. Except that he looks more like a deadbeat than a tycoon. Overwashed T-shirt, rumpled slacks, a salt-and-pepper stubble. Not a designer stubble either, just a scruffy one. But then there are those phones.

Or the old gent at the airport (Delhi airport again) in his white cotton suit. Which is OK in summer, kind of old-world charm. My grandfather had a white suit. Only this gent wore a RED tie with it. THIS LOUD. Weirdoso grandoso was the fact that inside the collar and the tie, he wore a red silk band. Embroidered zari kind of thingy, a little like a cravat but much narrower. And on his feet, white Reebok basketball shoes. Ye gods.

The fat Bong on the flight wasn’t exactly weird, just gross. I can commiserate with obesity, but to get as fat as this guy you just have to be a greedy slob. I know, it could be a glandular disorder, it could be depression. But at the end of the day he’s still a greedy pig who can’t keep food out of his mouth.

And he stank. And his clothes rucked up obscenely. And he kept turning round to talk to the guy in the seat behind him. And he had bad breath and huffed like a grampus. I pitied the guy next to him – Fat Slob was in the aisle seat, I (not-SO-fat slob?) was by the window and the guy in the middle had the worst deal.

The weird part was that, when they served the meal, Fat Slob drew a polythene pack out of his pocket and carefully emptied the food into that. For why?!

Dilemma

After lunch today, I sat in front of my computer and sniggered for 15 mins. Then I laughed for half an hour.

Then I sat and cried because I can't make up my mind whether I'd rather be Chuck Norris or Vin Diesel.

(Blogger has been warned that if either of them logs on, that 'What is a Blog' widget will be roundhouse kicked into the NASA parking lot. The one that orbits Pluto.)

Disappooooiinted!

"Take it away, I ordered a double cheeseburger and fries!"

Was Titian ever in the American Mid-West?
(Enlightened via Bill Bryson)

Double Bill

I appreciate the written word more than the visual medium of cinema, so it's nice when a film is structured like a novel. It's even nicer when the film in question is much better than one expected. I may have liked it all the more in comparison with the director's previous attempt, so you are free to discount my praise hereafter.

Anjan Dutta directed Burrah Din (or Bada Din, though that spelling is not advisable in Calcutta) 9 years ago. It sucked. So I expected The Bong Connection to be another patchy mélange. Surprise. This is a well-scripted, neatly structured, thoroughly enjoyable film with excellent performances from an ensemble cast.

Dutta portrays Bangali quirks and foibles in Houston and in Hati Bagan. His observations, from the standard drunk in the probashi party to the para layabout who’s into ‘contracting’, are acute and often hilarious The story tracks two young Bengalis moving in opposite directions, as one tries to grow anew from family roots in Calcutta and the other learns to fly in foreign skies.This could easily have been a clever little linear docu-drama with no soul. Instead, it tracks their respective arcs as they cross in mid-air and even closes the circle by film's end. Anjan Dutta's script drives the film even better than his direction, with only two weak spots ^[1] in over two hours.

Not that the direction is weak. There's an interlude when the main characters, half of them in Shantiniketan and the other half in Texas, dance to the rhythm of a remix (yes, but it works!) of Tagore's Pagla hawa. It could have been kitschy, or sunk under the weight of reverence. Instead of which, it rises and soars, lifting the sails of imagination like Tagore's "frenzied wind". Or a chapter from Kerouac. Even Raima Sen looks natural and not her usual precious self. Now THAT is quite an achievement. In fact, Dutta extracts good performances from even the noted non-performers (no names) and some great cameos from Victor Banerjee and Shouvik Kundagrami. The supporting cast are solid and Peeya Mukherjee blazes quality in a comparatively ill-defined role.

Neil Dutta’s music is surprisingly good for a first-timer. Not every track, but the baaul tracks are wonderful. My friend criticized the under-use of Soumitra Chatterjee, now one of the grand old men of Bangla cinema. He appears in two scenes – as a paralytic old man struck silent by a stroke. I, on the contrary, found this the neatest part of the film, the under-stated tribute to Ray and his oeuvre (echoed by the background score). Soumitra was the original Apu, ‘Opoarajito’. As his character dies, Porombroto’s character, also named Apu, returns to his native shores. A closing of the circle and a reaffirmation of faith. A satisfying experience.

^[1] Once when Porombroto and Peeya fight in front of his apartment, and again in one of the scenes with Hasan the taxi driver.

The other film I saw recently was Partner. Don’t gasp. I loved it, and not just because of Govinda’s innate timing. This film works on many levels. Much has been written about the chemistry between the film’s lead pair – Salman and Govinda. It’s there and it drives the film, but one of the stars is not on screen.

Sanjay Chhel wrote the script. He has been a favourite ever since the days of Yeh jo hai Zindagi, right through Daud and Yes Boss. If the two leading men sound good on-screen, it’s because of the lines Chhel gives them. Camp, outrageous, but so inane they’re good. I mean, Jahan guru wahan chela, ayee milan ki bela is almost as over-the-top as Owe koi nahin jee, hum toh bus underwear-underwear khel rahe they (from that other Dhawan-Govinda romp, Jodi No. 1).

There’s not much by way of a story or plot, no matter that the basic premise is lifted from Hitch. The intermittent ensemble numbers are faintly irritating. Rajpal Yadav is too loud and wasted in a little digression as Chhota Don. Katrina Kaif is pretty and vapid. Lara Dutta doesn’t have much of a role either except to flesh out, as a single mother, the acknowledgement of changing times. Unlike Katrina, however, she does look like a person and not just a pretty face. I’d do coffee with her any day.

The soul of the film glimmers in the scene where Salman as the ‘love guru’ tries to teach ‘bewaqoof Bhaskar’ to dance. Others have mentioned Govinda jiving to Sarkai le khatiya while Salman tries to do a coolio to Just chill. (This is one of a series of in-jokes, like Salman’s inability to do a film fully clad, that I enjoyed enormously.) The giveaway comes just afterwards. Salman walks out, Govinda starts a crazy hop and Just chill morphs into Cheel cheel chilla ke, from Kishore Kumar’s Half Ticket.

This, I think, is the essence of the film. Kishore Kumar in Half Ticket was a bizarre, unpredictable streak of comic energy. The film had a ridiculous premise that was actually irrelevant except for some sight gags. Like Kalidas’ 1962 romp, David Dhawan doesn’t mess with a good thing. He has a script with some good gags, he has a lead pair who crackle together. He lets them loose, rolls the camera as they freak out, and waits for the good bits to fall in place. And you know what, it works. Full-too time-pass. So what if it isn’t Blow-Out?!

**** ****

Curioser and ...

Yesterday … a very polite letter from a Mr. J*. “Wonder if you remember, we’ve met a few times, hope you are well, I happened to take a photograph of your wife and you, here it is” (framed, even). Very nice of him, I’m sure.

Except that the couple in the photo are total strangers to me.

****

Today … a colleague retires, a ‘farewell’ thingy is organised. Another colleague rises to ‘speak on the occasion’. In totally mangled Bangla, with an Oriya accent as thick as peanut butter, he expounds upon (i) how he’s looking forward to retiring himself so that people can say nice things about HIM (ii) what Ouillem Blacko (William Blake, gerrit?) said about tigers (iii)‘the bourne whence no traveler returns’ (the man is retiring, not DYING!) (iv) how the study of philosophy is a prerequisite for government service (or the natural outcome?)

And all this while I sit at the head of the tale, nodding gravely and occasionally making faces to disguise the storms of laughter that roil my abs.

****

Who needs marijuana?!

Things to do

1. Cut out about 80% of my Bloglines feeds.

2. Take Bloglines off my Bookmarks.

3. Block Bloglines.

4. Get a life.

... and smells of steaks in passage-ways ..

This is about an evening last December or thereabouts, dug out from 'Drafts' because of a wunnerful time last Wednesday evening.

A non-evening in a Delhi non-winter. With the up-side of finally meeting the Babu, whose writing I like enough to qualify as a bona fide … ummm, fan, even. And meeting again the Babu’s Other Half, who is intimidatingly sharp, depressingly cool and had minor rock star status in Cal some decades ago. Worth it for that alone, not counting the bonus of seeing in the flesh (rather more of it than one recalled, actually) a certain celebrity stripper from the Ananda spa.

Raj Kamal Jha has written another book. His third, and apparently a good one. His first was such a stylistic miscegenation – Amit Chaudhuri sets up Arundhati Ray (you can already make out I didn’t like Jha’s first, can’t you? Go on, say it, I’m biased!) on a blind date with John Irving. Awful stuff from a good writer. But “Fireproof” has been appreciated by Learned Persons who Understand Literature, so I shall buy it and hope it’s not, as the name suggests, a future Night Shyamalan script.

Said book was launched at the India International Centre, where one rolled up in search of like-minded company. And soothed internal issues about freeloading by sipping only soda. Such restraint. No wait, I had three fish fingers – should I send Picador a cheque? I knew precisely two people there. The Babu, once we were introduced, was the third. (And a bit of a disappointment, because my mental image of somebody plump, squat, square-jawed and shawl-wrapped was totally off the mark.) There was a BYT who led me to the venue, but sadly enough, she did not stop to chit-chat once we were in.

Chatted with the Dilton for a while, while he pointed out in quick succession (a) a poet (b) Ruchir Joshi and (c) Kanika Gehlot. Hysteria-inducing account of the reaction in Delhi to her tell-all book, but if even DD does not remember the name, it must have been quite awful. (DD remembers everything. Or at least used to, when he still quizzed. OK, qualified statement – he remembered everything as long as he was stoned. Now do you see why he was a rock star on the quiz circuit?) Kanika Gehlot needs to see an orthodontist, no no, not SEE in that way, CONSULT, as in use the services of. The ORTHODONTIST’S services, boys and girls, let’s not be smutty here. I don’t know her from Eve, but I remember a piece she wrote some months ago. Nasty piece of work.

In the meantime, one PYT markedly pushed off from DD’s side the moment I hove into view; another rushed up to us and breathlessly asked if she could “borrow a cigarette”. Say what? Borrow? What does she do, hand back the stub? This cigarette thingy was repeated in various versions over the next 20 minutes (which was all I stayed, since I ended up with nobody to talk to). I spent some time in a wicker chair, sipping my soda and watching the fauna of literate Delhi.

A young lady looked at me, whispered in her swain’s ear, looked at me again. Did I resemble somebody she’d seen on a post-office wall? No, I thought I knew the reason. Sure enough, she came over and asked for a cigarette. What is it with Delhi, is this the “khoo” thing these days?

Then I got tired of it all and went back to my room and slept fitfully, with unpleasant dreams that woke me up but vanished from my memory.

**** ****

In-flight

Interesting company on my flight to Delhi yesterday. Embarrassing too. I squirmed in my seat while a (supposedly) venerable Additional Director-General of police discussed, in a Very Loud Voice,

(a) Intimate details of his brother-in-law’s anatomy (said b-i-l has been rechristened Long Doodoong Doong, need I say more?)

(b) The unfortunate case of B- B-, until recently a feared Superintendent of Police, who made two mistakes. One, he was unwary during a dark night in camp, resulting in an Intimate Encounter that was worse than piles. Secondly, he actually went and cried to his colleagues about it. Any day now some gangster under interrogation may smirk and ask him whether he’s still sore.

(c) Internal memos (on yellow Post-It pads) about the appropriate place to file the proceedings of a long meeting chaired by an Even More Senior Policeman. Said (very rude) memos being circulated during the meeting. I don’t remember having done that since college.

(d) Graphic descriptions of the appearance and morals of certain senior police officers and their political patrons, with glosses on their past lives. I shuddered.

(e) The digestive problems of an academically-minded officer whose room was 300 feet up the hill in Katesar Castle and who would be perennially caught short around half eleven. Whereupon he would borrow this ADG’s room key for the necessary relief. Until the day ADG unscrewed the bolt on the bathroom door and invited half a dozen friends to watch the performance.

And a little gem … A.N.Jha Block in the Academy, one night in October of 197_. Two officers in training, one in the IPS and the other in the IAS, are meditating in the privacy of their (shared) room. One of them is just back from Delhi and has been Given Some LSD. Wherefore they have popped a pill apiece and, some time having passed, are comparing notes.

‘Do you see a pinkish haze?’

‘Music … music would be awesome now.’

‘Right, I can feel this HUGE high coming.’

More time passes. The haze – pinkish or otherwise – does not deepen. No psychedelic houris or dancing dragons, no learning to fly.

‘It’s not all that strong, is it?’

‘You think we should have another one each?’

‘F*%#@, what company sells it packaged like this anyway?’

The foil pack is examined with bleary eyes.

‘Vitamin C supplement – Celin 500 mg’.

Pink haze indeed.

**** ****