Instead of a siesta

Sunday afternoon, I’m home listening to one and a half people sleeping when I could have been at an Enthralling Quiz run by a Truly Erudite Quizzer, said quiz to be held in the manse of a Nice Lady who will Provide Refreshments (and Much Nattering). I am desolate at the Loss, until I Pause to Reflect and realise that I would have Known Nothing at the Quiz, thus shattering the remnants of my Reputation as an Elder Statesman in Calcutta Quizzing (thank you very much for pointing out that it’s “all in my mind”, I am not entirely insensitive to irony). Said reputation is already much battered because (a) I haven’t actually won a quiz since about May last year and (b) Do’B was short of smart lines at the last quiz and chose to dwell on how a certain “senior Government officer enjoyed his quizzing like a Cls. XI college student” (a species that exists only in my alma mater, where Cls. XI and XII are part of the college). That has rankled, though I am slightly mollified by his hat-tip (in his column in the Telegraph today).

Another deep dark reason for my not being utterly desolate is that I don’t want any more murukkus, thank you very much. (The Nice Lady tends to Overdo the Murukku Angle). Yesterday, on “Indian” (they had to rename themselves after a Kamalahaasan movie?!) I had the worst damn murukkus I have ever had in my entire life. For the three readers of my blog who have never been to India, a murukku is a snack thingy, spiced chick-pea flour forced through a nozzle and fried in sticks or spirals. For some strange reason, murukkus are always spiky, like sea-horses. Maybe there’s a market for them in the West? Spicy Spikys? Shaped like sea-horses … if you eat an entire collection you get to incubate your wife’s eggs?

Anyway, the point about murukkus is that they’re spicy, they’re fried and they’re crisp. The average male will eat camel turds if they’re cooked that way, so you can guess how bad the in-flight murukkus must have been if I didn’t eat even ONE. In fact, the entire meal was almost the worst airborne culinary experience I have ever had. Not quite the worst – I was once served greenish chunks of meat on Aeroflot, was so hungry I actually ate half of one chunk before the gag reflex took over, and spent my entire first day in Moscow sick in bed.

So this meal had – Item, three pieces of chicken kebab, dried to sofa-stuffing by 29 re-heats and about as succulent as a feather-duster; Item, one small faux baguette, sliced lengthwise and stuffed with curried cottage cheese that had gone sour; Item, one unidentified round fried object that could have been a potato roesti or, on the other hand, the product of some ruminant’s alimentary tract; Item, something that was probably meant to be a shammi kebab but had morphed into something from The X-Files, if the cabin lights had gone off I’m sure it would have glowed radioactive green. I was reduced to wolfing down the shahi tukra. When even fried bread in condensed milk seems good, one has had an unique meal.

And oh – murukkus. Three of them, lurking next to the loaf like lethargic vipers. I could smell their menace. Retreat seemed the best option. I retreated.

The real WTF moment came earlier. In the terminal. After check-in, I turned left as usual. Delhi airport’s layout is closest to our rural ideals. If you want to commune with nature, you go for a walk. A long walk. On either end of the concourse, somewhere over the horizon from check-in, there are washrooms. You take a deep breath, set your critical internal muscles to “HOLD IT!” and start the Long March.

Only to come up in front of a sign that says “The washrooms are freshening up. Together, we’ll make it happen”. WTF?! Are you inviting me to be part of a process that will culminate in a large inanimate AREA taking a leak? Compared to this, Kafka was stone cold sober all his life! The next sign is a little more comprehensible – “Toilets are under renovation. The inconvenience caused is regretted”. Yes, fine, but do you regret it enough to make alternative arrangements? How much would you regret it if three thousand passengers a day watered your plants, eh?!

I was a blur as I whizzed through security. Surely nobody could be daft enough to renovate all the loos at the same time? Sharp left, walk fast, there at the end aarrgghhhhh! They CAN be daft enough! NEVER underestimate moronicity!

I eventually found ONE functional loo, next to the door where they take passengers out (to identify their baggage, but am I the only one who cringes in expectation of a blank wall and a line of muskets?).

And there was not a single weirdo in sight. Did my last Delhi airport post offend them? Scare them off? Ah well ...

****

And all of Sunday we’ve been treated to continuous updates about a boy in a well. Poor kid fell in there on Friday and all the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men haven’t been able to get him out yet. But wait – the Chief Minister is on the spot, “Madam” has called, people all over the country are praying for him, spending money on offerings, throwing birthday parties for Prince.

There was an episode of “Yes Prime Minister”, the dog Benjy lost in the minefield on Salisbury Plain – does anybody remember that one? So yes, the politicos can’t afford to pass up this one, they need the situation, the bytes, the eyeballs. But the general public? Why do they have to come on in whiteface and cherry noses? Of course the TV channels go interactive. They invite calls. Text messages for Prince yield profundities like “They should get him out of the tunnel soon” and “You are the Prince of India”. And in all the coverage, nobody came up with the reason why they couldn’t just swing a crane down there and pick him up.

Some years ago, typically, this would have been a story in the left-hand column on the fifth page of the local papers. We’d never have seen it on the telly, let alone for hours on end (CNN-IBN held out for a while but eventually joined in the madness). Would we have missed much? On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for the media attention, the army probably wouldn’t have been called in, the rescue attempts wouldn’t have been so systematic.

Score one for the media, they probably helped save a life here. Now if only the world's morons would put their money in the right place instead of spending it on garlands and ghee.

**** ****

All of me

The Aged Gabbler has been Informed by a Wise Infant that he (the Gabbler) is, in fact, a Multitude. Or at least that there is More than One of Him. Since said Aged Person was not Fully Aware of This State of Being, much Confusion has been Caused.

One has not so far been Familiar with the Schizoid State. One has Read, however, that in such Cases the Left Hand Knoweth Not what the Right Hand Doth. This might Explain the Dodderer’s Lack of Awareness of this Other Self. (It might also Lead to Complications during the Daily Ablutions, but one shall not Dwell on That Here.) The Lack of Awareness may also be due to Simple Senile Dementia. This Angle is now Being Explored by Those Better Qualified to Comment.

The Oldest Member is also Gratified. First, that Clever Children think him capable of Imagination and Dissimulation. Further, that he can be associated with a Persona that is Energetic. Innovative, even. Of course, such Energy and Innovation are Admirable in an apparently Younger Persona; if these qualities were evident in the Senile Haverer, he would be dubbed a Randy Old Goat. Regardless of this Minor Difference, the Oldest Member is Quite Chuffed.

Furthermore, the Wise Infant and Her Correspondents claim to have Linked the Second Persona on the basis of his Writing Style, which is reportedly Very Similar to the Aged Person’s, only Much More Colourful. Your Correspondent is Positively Elated at the Thought that he may have, nay, HAS, a Distinct Style. This is Praise Indeed.

Having Considered the Matter in its Entirety, therefore, the Oldest Member has Decided not to Dispute the Findings. In sum, to Sit Tight. He is Keenly Aware that the Second Persona may have the Strongest Objections to Being Linked with a Senile Old Coot. Should such Objections be Stated and Vociferously So, the Old Gaffer’s defence (mumbled through a Toothless Gummy Grin) will be that, in More Ways than One, It Wasn’t Me!

**** ****

Happens

In the middle of all the sadness and anger, a story that might seem pointless.

Arindam is an officer in the C***, a para-military force, presently posted in Aizawl. Last year he married Tuhin Babu’s daughter. This tangentially concerns me, because Tuhin Babu was my secretary when I was in P District and I hold him in high regard. A fine, earnest, good man of the old school. He asked to be transferred out of the DM’s office after I left, now he puts in his 9 to 5 and gets home comparatively early. When I went to P in May, he took me home and his bright-eyed wife served me a superb lunch in a spick-and-span room thick with the scent of incense sticks. Afterwards, we walked in his tiny walled garden and he plucked fragrant limes for me to carry home to Calcutta.

Monday afternoon I got a call from Tuhin Babu. Upset, barely holding back tears. He was in Aizawl. His daughter and son-in-law had quarrelled over some trivial issue the previous Monday night. On Tuesday, Arindam came home in the afternoon to find his wife sulking in bed and no lunch. He went back to work. Driving home in the evening, he asked his chauffeur to drop him off at the airport. And vanished.

From Tuhin Babu and his daughter Indira, over a phone line that faded and crackled, I pieced together a picture of an unusual man. Sensitive, moody but considerate. A man who couldn’t get through the work-day without talking to his wife, yet struck her when his patience ran out. Who, after he drew money to buy an air ticket to Calcutta, remembered to leave three thousand rupees under his wife’s clothes in the cupboard before he walked out.

For three days, Tuhin Babu and I phoned everywhere. Bank. Home. Friends. Police. Colleagues.

My friend who heads the detective department in Calcutta said such disappearing acts can usually be traced to any of four causes – depression, another woman, debt or some scheme with friends. We asked around. By all accounts, he had not been in touch with his childhood sweetheart for many years. He was not in debt. He was not close to any of his colleagues. A reclusive but soft-spoken and gentle man. Depression? It might fit, but this scenario made him less predictable.

Arindam does not have a cell phone, which might have made things easier. The bank inquiries paid off. His ATM card had been used for withdrawals at Calcutta Airport. Then, two days later, on Dadabhai Naoroji Road in Bombay. Why Bombay? Nobody had an answer. Arindam’s commanding officer cajoled the local police to send a team to Bombay or at least to mail his picture and description there. I called up favours with colleagues out there. Then 11^th July happened and we realised that the Bombay police have their hands too full to devote much time to this case. Besides, what if he was on one of those trains? Hopes fell. Until the bank manager called and said there had been another withdrawal from the same ATM in Bombay, on 12^th July. But we were no closer to finding him.

Today, Tuhin Babu called me from Calcutta Airport on his way back to P. He wept. I felt awful. He said his daughter didn’t want to come into the city because she would have to talk to people. They went straight to the station.

Ten minutes ago, Tuhin Babu called from a phone booth at the station. I cold practically see his beaming face over the phone. “Sir, Arindam has been found. My daughter saw him at the station, about to board a train for the North-East. I bought her a ticket, they’re together now, on a train home to Aizawl.”

Fairy-tale ending. Nice.

So far.

**** ****

Running ahead of the story

The mystery is solved.

What Matterazzi asked Zidane was ...

Hum ChlorMint kyon khaate hain?!

****

Damn damn DAMN

Srinagar in the morning, Bombay in the evening.

Remember my firm conviction that the world is full of morons? Have to amend that a bit. Some of those morons are evil bastards who should be eliminated. No “understanding”, no counselling, no analysis. If you are sick enough to maim and kill unsuspecting people who never did you any harm, you should be removed. Like a cancer.

And some of those supposed morons are also people who give their labour, their bedsheets, their homes to help the dead and injured. And some are people like Griff and the Guys at Mumbai Help – check out http://mumbaihelp.blogspot.com/ for updates and http://groups.google.com/group/BombayHelp to monitor comments.

Just one thing. Unless you’re my one surviving grandparent, don’t talk to me about God for a while, OK? Or I might just drop-kick your head up your arse.

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

The name is Bond ...

... or, walking to Landour (and back)

Looking back from Kulri

A shared burden

Landour Bazaar. Reminiscent of Benaras?

Toothpaste and milk? "We provide the complete morning ..."

The sun creeping in. Nice?

A WTF moment

I huffed up the last few steps of the footpath and asked about “Bond Saheb ka ghar” from a man sitting in the sun. He grinned and pointed. “Up there, on the second floor”. Eh? I had expected a little cottage with a garden, not an apartment in a little crumbling house. I actually blurted out “Bas, this is it?!”

A ramrod-straight, tweed-clad, grey-whiskered Sikh gent who was passing took offence and rebuked me. “He is a very good man. Great men are simple.” I tried to explain that I had read about Mr. Bond’s garden gate. The gentleman’s ire subsided. He explained that the “garden gate” was actually a wicket leading from the first-floor landing to the second floor. I nodded sagely. And passed on to gaze reverently upon The Man’s window for a while.

Later, my friend asked me why I didn’t just ring the bell. Some people have NO sense. Who would like to have their morning disrupted by some stranger with a camera (and, truth to tell, a thirst. I’ve read somewhere that Mr. Bond likes his beer)? But it would have been nice to see his Yoda-like visage.

Mr. Bond's house

His window (love the flowers behind glass,
there's a DH Lawrence poem like that)

His neighbourhood

And his view.

From a little way down that road, I could see Katesar "Castle" and its temple on the hill behind the Academy. Even the red roof of the monstrous new auditorium sticks its shoulder out from behind the ridge, like an elephant trying to hide behind a palm tree. I felt strangely happy at the fact that it could be seen from the corner of Mr. Bond's road.
I also felt very stupid that I had never made the pilgrimage when I lived in Mussoorie. Oh well, better late ....

**** ****

MY Uncle Oswald

My Mama … well, since I never use real names for real people here, he can be my Uncle Oswald (with apologies to Roald Dahl) … my Uncle Oswald, then, was a large man in every sense of the term. Six feet and a bit and broad to match, he carried an imposing paunch in his later years. Not a flip-floppy creased wobbling paunch but a noble protrusion as tight and as large as a bass drum, a declaration of his love for the good things of life and his growing ability to indulge that love. Fair, grizzled (with what would now be called a boot-cut but to his generation was an “Italian chhnaat”), eyes a little lighter than normal, rings on all his fingers, with a little spade-shaped beard and a rumbling bass growl that rolled around the room, he was more of an Utpal Dutt character than Utpal Dutt himself could always be.

He was my mother’s first cousin, scion of a richly eccentric and alarmingly fecund (my great-grandmother had TWENTY-ONE children. And lived till the age of 93. Iron Lady? Pshaw! Tungsten!) clan that roared and partied and squabbled across Calcutta from Ballygunge to Shimla Street and out to country houses in Madhupur and Deogarh. And he carried the M Family’s strain of eccentricity. Carried it? Flaunted it! Flourished it like a banner, wrapped it around himself like the purple, used it as a declaration of his bonedi roots, brandished it to intimidate and to charm his way through his various mysterious deals. From minor excesses …

He had 25 (yes, twenty-five) clocks in his sitting-room. The large dark cool room - paved in cracked marble, two old fans moving jerkily like an arthritic old couple, the thick walls smelling slightly of damp, quiet except for the undercurrent of ticking - would come alive every hour as the clocks tootled, chimed, gonged. Some of the older ones would also sound the quarters; this seemed so redundant for a man who prided himself on keeping people waiting (especially if they thought themselves to be important). Why so many clocks? Possibly he liked them. Or perhaps he just couldn’t give them away. From stately rosewood clocks with brass pendulums to the sheerest kitsch from his Rotary branch, they all found place on his shelves. And on his tables. AND mantel (I said it’s an old house. A hundred years ago, they built in imitation of the English gentry, so they had fireplaces. Even if they sweltered at 28 Celsius in the shade).

Clocks, however, came second to shoes. His daughter told us, “Baban hasn’t figured out how we always know when he’s bought another pair of shoes. It’s simple … normally he comes in like a thundersquall, huffing and shouting as he climbs the stairs. Any time he tries to sneak in quietly, we know he has another pair of shoes under his arm.” Another pair indeed. The middle room, the one where he housed .. well, let that be, suffice it to say that there were two large deep high glowing teak-wood cupboards in that middle room and they were always locked. Only Uncle O had the keys. Because they were full to bursting with shoes. Patent leather, suede, curly-toed, patterned-punch, pumps, brogues, buttoned boots, enough to give Imelda Marcos at least a momentary twinge of inadequacy. There must have been 250 pairs of shoes in those cupboards. He couldn’t resist them, it was a disease. And all he ever wore on a regular basis were his fawn leather sandals with the acupressure insoles. The M family again.

Clocks. Shoes. Honorary posts, for which he politicked like a man possessed - Rotary Club, Pujo Committee, neighbourhood watch, All India President of the Homoeopathic Association (yes, homoeopathy is a family tradition). And dogs. Oh how that house stank – THREE Great Danes, a manic depressive Dobermann and two other hairy creatures like discarded rugs of indeterminate provenance. They yapped, they bayed, they widdled on the stairs and they drove us quite nuts when we visited. It is not conducive to bright conversation to have something the size of a young bull, only with (much) sharper teeth, snuffling at your crotch while you try to merge into the wallpaper. This, mind you, was when he had fallen on hard times and cut down on the menagerie. Apparently he had FIVE Great Danes earlier. They must have shat the family out of house and home, because even with only three of them there were never enough walks to serve their needs. (I never dared to step out on the terrace for fear of collecting manure deposits on my shoes.)

Family legend has it that the largest hound, a retarded lolloping pedigreed giant named Blue, once leaned over the terrace parapet and bayed at the exact moment that a tram went off its rails in the street below. Convinced that it was a tribute to his fearsome aspect, for months afterwards he tried to repeat the feat whenever he heard a tram. It never worked again. Blue went into a depressive decline over his Failed Hound Act. Perhaps the M Family effect rubbed off on canines.

****

The Shimla Street Hunt also produced one of Uncle O’s most devastating lines. In the ‘70s, when membership of the Bengal Club was even more unattainable than today, he persuaded an associate to put him up to the Committee. This took some doing, because the Club in those days still had the rule that if a candidate was turned down by the Committee, his proposer also had to resign. Even more daunting when one considers Uncle O’s reputation as an anti-establishment maverick.

Came the day of the interview and O rolled his bulk up to the Reynold’s Lounge for the interview. When he entered, his proposer winced and covered his eyes; in defiance of the Club’s dress code, O was in his usual attire of loose shirt, vastly floppy trousers and those sandals with the acupressure soles. (And his heirloom Rolex with the diamonds in the casing, he believed in discreet flaunting. If there is such a thing.) There are advantages to being large and intimidating. The Committee, instead of politely turning him out of doors, sat down to take tea with him. The interaction, surprisingly, went quite well. Uncle O could be immensely charming when he wanted to. Till right at the very end, one wizened prune-face who had kept quiet throughout - a Parsi lawyer known throughout the country as a tax counsel – spoke up, his face twisted in evident distaste.

“MISTER M (deadly insult, remember Oswald was a doctor of homoeopathy), the DUES of this Club can be .. aaahh .. quite a HEAV-ee BURden. Are you QUITE sure that your … hmmm … RE-sources will be quite COMM-en-surate with the re-QUIRE-ments?” Oh, he was a rude b***ard all right, but he was just twisting the knife, “I’m on the Committee, sucker, lie back and take it!”

The Lounge fell silent. O rose slowly to his feet and then – as his Proposer cowered and prayed – took a ponderous step closer towards his tormentor. He took a deep breath. He Swelled with Outrage – a technique he had perfected over the years, it works rather well if you weigh about 270 pounds and can lift a small man under each arm. He thrust a bejewelled finger the size of a young carrot under the Prune’s nose (said Prune by this time discreetly burrowing into his armchair) and Swelled Some More. The Committee braced themselves to call the stewards, the police, whatever it took to prevent mayhem.

“You … YOU !!! (bass booming round the Lounge, finger wagging nearer and nearer the aquiline quivering nose) … I have FIVE Great Danes, you hear me? FIVE! Resources!? I spend MORE on feeding them every month than YOU EARN! RESOURCES! Ha!”

Then he sat back down in his groaning armchair and glowered round at the Committee.

It speaks volumes for their tact that they wound up the interview without further unpleasantness. On their way down the stairs, the Proposer sobbed quietly into his handkerchief.

Three days later, Uncle O was accepted as a member of the Bengal Club.

Perhaps they secretly admired the unconventional.

****

Years later, in one of the intervals when he was flush with funds, he took us to lunch at the Club. We’d tried to cadge an invitation the previous month, but my cousin disarmingly said “We’re poor this month, very poor. Didn’t you notice both cars are gone?” Then a month later a swank Sonata appeared in the portico and off we went to the Bengal Club. (I had learnt that Uncle O’s finances tended to be unpredictable. He didn’t believe in saving. When he was short of money, he would open up his chamber and examine patients. When he’d swung one of his “deals”, he’d shut up shop and go traveling with his family. On one such trip they all put up at the Chola in Chennai. On the first day, O discovered that they made a divine lobster thermidor. Wherefore, for the next three days, all four members of the family had lobster thermidor for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Often with repeats. At over a thousand bucks a plate. The evening before they were due to leave, Uncle O called his son aside and handed him the bunch of air tickets. “Take these down to the travel desk, get a refund and buy train tickets for tomorrow.” The thermidor had taken its toll on more than the digestion.)

That lunch at the Bengal Club was a revelation. Where earlier the dining room had been this cloistered close where diners bent reverently over their plates and tried not to clink their cutlery, with Uncle O in full flow it became a Marx Brothers set.

“DATTA”, he bellowed. This to the ancient and stiffly proper chief steward, who could wither captains of industry with a glance and reduce socialites to sobbing wrecks with an eyebrow. I waited for the heavens to fall. Datta hurried over and positively fawned! Ye gods and little fish! “Datta”, roared O again in a voice that could be heard across the Hooghly, “this is my nephew. Needs feeding, understand? Where’s that dessert you do here? Monaco?”

“Monte Carlo, sir, you mean the Monte Carlo, right away sir, just a moment …” And Grand Old Datta positively scurried away to get the sweet. There was more to come. After I was served by the cummerbunded waiter, Datta hovering obsequiously in the middle distance, the poor man made the mistake of moving off with the dessert tray. A bellow hit him amidships from point-blank distance. “HEY!” I swear I could tell from the back of his neck that the man blanched. Diners at other tables dropped their forks. Datta washed his hands in invisible soap, struck dumb with apprehension. “LEAVE IT HERE! The boy has to EAT! Eh what? OTHER tables?!” Here he surveyed the rest of the cowering diners. “Get them another tray, but LEAVE THAT ONE HERE!”

The Monte Carlo at the Bengal Club is divine, but not when you have to finish a shipload of it under the benevolent supervision of a Large Uncle. And the disapproving stares of sundry diners who have to wait for their just desserts.

****

One morning in Hooghly, the familiar bass rumbled over the phone. “Nephew! Who do you think you are?!” Eh?

“Do you think I’m trying to bribe you? What can you do for me anyway? Book me a room in a Dak Bungalow? HEY?”

“What IS the matter, Mama? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“You drove away my boy when he took sweets to your house!”

Apparently, while I was in the bath someone had turned up with a crate of sweets. Our maid had strict instructions not to accept any gifts, so she had sent him packing. I explained. The Growl was mollified.

“But what is the occasion, Mama? Why have you suddenly sent me sweets?”

“You know, Matul, this morning when I woke up I had this premonition of death. I think I shall die this week. So I thought I would send sweets to everybody I hold dear.”

His premonition was a little .. premature. He had two more good years after that.

Rest in peace, Big Man.

**** ****

Trying too hard, really

Too sick to write, yet inspired by this blog . And by the Griff.

Il Duomo, Milan.
As I've mentioned earlier, it has been called a "rococo hedgehog". Built and re-built for over 500 years. Each of those spires is topped by a statue, one has to go up on the roof to see them up close.













Trudging back from the Ile de la Citie, happily footsore after a day of walking, I chanced upon this frame.
A window of the Louvre, somewhere opposite the Comedie Francaise.

Sunset highway.
Driving back from Shantiniketan early this year.

From a balcony at Diamond Harbour.
I used to live there once. The first time I heard a ship's horn as it passed through the inner channel, right next to the bungalow, I thought it was running aground. It was THAT close.











Setting forth.
Lake Windermere. We thought the clouds had ruined our trip, but it turned out to be what the Irish call "a braw soft day". Lovely shaded moods in those greys.







Silhouette, Singapore.
Up on the 63rd floor, thanks to an upgrade. At the time, this was the highest I'd been with my feet on a concrete floor. There was a swimming pool and some tennis courts far far below. When I looked down it was like a helicopter view and yet even those were on the 8th floor.










The same view, only this time from out on the balcony. Nothing very artistic, just the experience of seeing for miles. And all those ships out in the bay.













Kind of geometric.
The ceiling at Pudong Airport.
I have a better shot of an airport ceiling, that should go on Flickr soon.











Gathering storm.
Driving back from Kashid, some time in 2003. Other bloggers have put up photos of the Murud-Jinjira fort - this was taken just after we'd passed it.
The digital camera makes such a difference now.

This one is just about my favourite photograph.
Some time after lunch on a Sunday, almost broke.
I didn't have enough money to go inside the Hotel des Invalides.
This splash of colour amid the dual-toned chiaroscuro more than made up for it.

****

Been through it all on a trip with no name ....

On the first part of the journey
I was looking past all the shops
There were clothes and shoes and baubles and mops
There was junk and trash and fops
The first thing I met was a klutz with a phone
In a shop where he bustled around
My head was hot and the wimmin were mad
And the air was full of sound

I've been on vacation with women who shopped
It went beyond all pain
On holiday, I knew I wuz copped
And there wasn't no one for to hear me complain
La, laaaa, la-lala-la, la laaa la …

After two days on the shopping trail
My head began to go spare
Three days left me haggard and pale
Life SO is not fair
The story got worse when we rode the rails
Made me sad to think I wasn’t dead

I've been on a journey with women who raved
After a while, I felt no pain
On holiday, I carted and slaved
'Cause there wasn't no one for to take me home just then
La, laaaa, la-lala-la, la laaa la …

After nine days the wimmin let me run free
When the hills had run down to the sea
There were clothes and shoes and tea-trays and lamps
Thinking of it gives me the cramps
Shopping gives meaning to a woman’s life
Opposing it causes strife
Despite all the shopping they had nothing to wear
And they kept buying large bags. In pairs.

You see I’ve been shopping in Purgatory
Nothing can hurt me again
From shopping, escape is illusory
If they stop you can be sure they’ll start up again
La, laaaa, la-lala-la, la laaa la …

(with thanks and apologies to Dewey Bunnell of America)

****

I was afraid. Very afraid. For the first two days, I laid low. I said little except to worry aloud about the amount of luggage. I even left one suitcase (about as large as a camper caravan, wheels and all) behind in Delhi so that there would be less space to carry shopping in. In Dehra Doon, they stayed in the room, relaxed. So did I.

Mistake. The lull etc.

We reached Mussoorie after breakfast. By three o’clock, market analysts across India were puzzling over the retail boom in Uttaranchal. My feeble expostulations about luggage space were as chaff before the reaper’s blade, Giles before Saurav Ganguly at Old Trafford. At the slope just before Kulri, my mother smiled widely and asked the man behind the counter whether they also sold bags. Whereupon the shop-man (may he rot in a hell of honeymooning hicks … come to think of it, that IS his life for six months in the year), grinned even more widely. And produced enough bags to load the Titanic to well above the Plimsoll line. He even had the gall to offer a choice of colours. An entirely irrelevant consideration. I mean, when you look at something the size of the UN Building, what do you think about first, the colour or the frickin’ SIZE?

They bought THREE of them. Oh sweet Lud.

At least I didn’t have to carry them back from Kulri to Library Point. They were kind enough to deliver free of charge. Oh yeah. So kind. Can you see where this is headed? Back in our room, I was pondering my immediate future (and a possible vocation as a Sherpa) over a cup of tea when the bell rang. Deliveries started. For the next fifteen hours (OK, OK, minutes), the world was full of sweaty men and large packages.

Candles (Candles?!) Cutlery. (Cutlery?!) Carvings (Yes, these I expected) But canvas? No, not canvas. Wall hangings. And enough cardboard cartons to package the Gateway of India. Whole.

Stepping sideways in the aisles between the containers, I tightened my jock-strap another two notches and Got Down to Packing. There were 48 hours to go before we left Mussoorie and it didn’t seem anything like adequate. Exaggeration? OK, try this.

Take one Container. No, not a baking dish, ducky. A FORTY-FOOT container, the kind they use to transport industrial boilers. A fully loaded one. Clear so far? Good. Now take suitcases, large, two numbers. Plus duffle bags, also large, four numbers. Transfer contents of forty-foot container to said suitcases and duffle bags, taking good care to store separately ...

(a) baby’s stuff, as in clothes

(b) baby’s other stuff, as in bottles and Wet Wipes and diapers and the Devil knows what

(c) the rest of baby’s stuff, don’t even ask, I believe the damn things breed in there

(d), (e) and (f), stuff belonging to two ladies and more stuff that aforesaid two ladies have to have close to hand when they travel although in 2 weeks of driving around I never once saw either of them open that bag

(g) stuff belonging to a Certain Lady and to attendant Coolie with Strolley

(h) stuff that Certain Lady needs to have close to hand (stuff other than the Attendant Coolie, that is. He doesn’t go in the bags, worse luck, he carries them)

Tried it? Whadyemean, you can’t make it all FIT? Of COURSE it can fit. You’re just not TRYING … Remember you still have to fit our SHOPPING in there ... don't be such a drama king, there's nothing wrong with you, yes you can breathe perfectly now STOP the play-acting already and NO, I will NOT get you some water ...

****

On the fourth day of the journey … We were due to leave Mussoorie in 3 hours. Lunched at Whispering Windows for old times’ sake. It’s amazing how perceptions change over the years. When we were in training it seemed tres coolth. And expensive. Whereas now … Anyway, lunch was ingested, view was enjoyed. Coolie was then summarily dismissed. Entrusted with the duty of taking Very Small Person back to the rooms for an afternoon nap while the Powers that Be “pick up something we ordered yesterday, we’ll be down in a quarter of an hour”. Now this nap thingy, with the attendant singing of lullabies, telling of tales and clutching of finger by small hand, is something this Coolie quite enjoys. (Awright, so I’m a sap when it comes to the Small Lady). When, however, said nap runs its course, tea tray is brought in and there is still no sign of the Powers that Be, the Coolie tends to Worry.

Cell-phone connectivity in Mussoorie is not the best (though still awesome when compared to Nainital). I was debating whether to Panic Large Scale and call in the police, when the doorbell rang. The Powers that Be filed in, eyes slightly glazed, a certain swagger to their collective walk like a bunch of trainee vampires who’d just stumbled upon a blood bank. You know what I mean? Kind of proud and satiated and a little disbelieving of what they’d Gone and Done.

Except that the procession did not end with them. For lo, verily behind them came there came a caravan. One surmises gold, frankincense and myrrh were part of the loads, though I did not espy the apes ivory and peacocks. After the first speechless glare, I asked (I’m afraid I actually squawked in the heat of the moment. Humbling to realise that when one most needed to sound grave and Last-Trump-like, one sounded more like Chicken Little played at high speed) where they proposed that I should accommodate the train-load of junk. Their reply was a repeat of the Packing Order.

Then, in what I thought was a Master-Stroke of Reasoning, I pointed out that we could buy n number of bags, but we couldn’t fit them in the car. Surely they didn’t propose that we hire another car?!

Mistake. BIG mistake. Three faces lit up with sudden inspiration. I retreated to the balcony to smoke a moody cigarette or two. O Tempora, O Mores would have about summed up my mood at that moment.

****

One must give Credit where it is Due. The Better Half bought Nothing for the first ten days. (Assorted cutlery, the odd sackful of cushion covers and a bushel of embroidered stuff apparently counts as Nothing). I was eloquent in my gratitude and in my appreciation of her sterling good sense, I was effusive in my praise of her depths of sympathy and consideration. This is a HelpMeet, when comes such another, I thought and glowed with pride.

Cometh the Dawn …. Three hours to the flight back home, and I was taking a well-earned smoke break before I went to shower and change. I fancy there was a certain gleam of pride in my eye as I surveyed the Bringing of Order from Chaos. Suitcases, duffle bags, occasional bags – all stuffed to the gills and beyond, standing in line all through the room across the living-room down the hallway to the door like a file of obese children about to start on a nature ramble. I was also (mentally) thanking the Better Half for being Wise Enough to take the rest of the paltan out to visit a family friend, thus Giving me Space to Wrestle Stuff into Bags.

(I had spent two days shamelessly dumping large bags on anybody flying back to Calcutta who was not a total stranger, thus reducing the Mess to Manageable Proportions while creating Alarm and Despondency among my circle of acquaintances. Even so, I had the distinct impression that my arms were a couple of inches longer from Hauling the Heavies.)

Then, as I wiped the Sweat of Toil from my Brow and prepared to sluice the Tons of Soil from the Self, the doorbell heralded the Return of the Powers that Be. With the Better Half in the vanguard. Followed by … oh déjà vu … yet another caravan. With no more bags to spare. And hardly any time till check-in.

Words failed me.

They still do.

Aarrggghhhh …..

**** ****

Fire on the water

Sandhya Arati at Har-ki-Pauri, Haridwar. An unlikely place to be reminded of Deep Purple?

**** ****

You can never go home again

I went down to the sacred store

Where I’d heard the music years before

But the man there said the music wouldn’t play …

Diesel fumes. Litter. Traffic jams. The ceaseless monkey chatter of hordes of stupid people. Shopping. Heat. This is not my refuge.

I lived here, on and off, for about twelve months between 1989 and 1991. Most of my companions said they hated the place. I could never figure out why, because I had everything I wanted. Shaggy hills, cool air that was pleasantly crisp when I went out on my midnight rambles, a library, gym, tennis courts, the smell of greenery. Even like-minded company every evening in 30, Ganga.

Well, 30 Ganga doesn’t exist any more. Now it’s #214. Even 5 Narmada, which I made my own over three phases of training, is now just #105. Gah. The view to the east from the top of the hill, where we looked out over miles of space to the next ridge, is now blocked by a monstrous building out of The Empire Strikes Back.

Oh, the campus is neater now. Where we struggled uphill after breakfast over pathways of concrete slabs, there are now covered well-paved walkways. Lit up at night, too, so there’s far less chance of a well-lubricated probationer taking a tumble on his way back to the room and turning up sheepishly at Dr. Jain’s infirmary the next morning. Our pathway between Cauvery and Ganga blocks has vanished under another covered walkway, with a staircase where we clambered (three careful paces down a slippery slope, jump down onto a small rock, then once more to a larger rock before we found level ground).

But the billiards room is locked and silent, in contrast to our good times after dinner when we’d watch and cheer over the click of the balls, and sometimes mask our amusement when an aspiring Lothario tried to “teach” a lady the finer points. Have you ever considered how deliciously improper the cue-ist’s stance is, especially if an “instructor” is leaning solicitously over her and trying to improve her bridge? Oh gumdrops and green cheese!

The Happy Valley block is still faintly eerie at night, the roof creaking in the breeze off the hills, spooky noises from the firs outside as the monkeys stir in their sleep. I didn’t go down to the stables; Dara is long gone. Dara – barrel-chested cynical cussed nimble-hoofed handsome fruit of the loins of Belial, who persistently tried his best to kill me and once nearly succeeded.

The old blocks – A.N. Jha Block, Mahananda – still slumber in the summer sun under their green roofs. The Director’s Block stands guard at the edge of the lawn, but now it is dwarfed by the bastard space-port opposite. Besides, it is no longer the lair of BNY - tall, dark, cadaverous, opinionated despot, half genius and half con-man. We sneered at him, we bent his rules, once we even shouted at him (it probably cost me a few rungs on the ladder) but he ruled our world with undisputed authority.

I did an evening walk-about, up and down the hill, then went back in the sunshine the next day. You know how sometimes reality doesn’t live up to memories? That was what I was checking out. I stood on that hillside and looked out to the west, and I wasn’t disappointed. Even with the stucco-sided monstrosities, the strip-lights and the tiles, I could be happy for a year with just these views. (I have to admit the riding ground is greener now, that's an improvement over the sea of dust from our days)

Or wait – could I? Was it about just the place, or was it the people? Perhaps what I’m really thinking of is (barf cue!) a reunion. Blleeeaahhh ….

Now I should shut up and go away before I start spewing old stories in an awful soggy gush of Old-Gafferism. (Update: four members of the Royal Club - R, the Man with the Smile, the Paranoid Punj and the Bong - did have a reunion of sorts in Delhi. It was good. But we missed the Horrible Hillman. Hoo-oop, Bong!)

**** ****

(Bath)room with a view

After dinner

Two stars. Half a moon that drenches a candelabra pine rising beyond the glass. Half-way to the sky, the Doon valley is a carpet of sequins slowly pulsing, sometimes flickering, in the silence of the night.

**** ****

with my feet up

A picture window framing the hills that cup the horizon. Layers of blue and grey merging with a cloud bank, like a Chinese painting. My pipe drawing just right. Under a blanket, a Very Small Person shares a siesta with a Comfortable Person.

Life gets better.

****

On the outside looking in

It takes forever to get from Trivandrum to Bangalore. The flight is delayed and There. Are. NO. LOOS in the security lounge at Trivandrum airport. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot! I considered going over to a potted palm and letting fly, then discretion prevailed. Statistical outlier – there were at least 4 pregnant women flying out of Trivandrum. Am I missing something here? I need more data to do a Levitt on this.

Bangalore traffic sucks. In comparison even Delhi is orderly, Bombay serene and Cal sheer heaven. Seriously. Objective opinion. An hour and a quarter from the airport to Lavelle Road. (On the way out at 5 a.m. today, it took 11 minutes.) As a result, I’m already in a bad mood by the time I check in. Further downer – after Chennai, this hotel seems a bit of a dump. I’m biased, it’s actually clean and adequate, but they can’t give me an ironing board (I cannot stand wearing un-ironed clothes. Some kink. Ask a shrink) and there’s no shoe mitt in the wardrobe. I call around to see whether I can move out in the morning. Nope. The entire damn city is full up. Mem: business ops – public loos in Chennai, hotels in Bangalore.

The natives were friendly, so we decided to stay the night. I needed to get out of that depressing room for a while. Koshy’s? Shoot me for sacrilege, but I find it too hot, too noisy and too predictable. The evening was salvaged by texted advice from a friendly Blooru. I ended up walking down past Koshy’s to The Tavern, a nice pub paradoxically located in what must be one of the worst hotels around.

I looked around and there was only one other person who looked over 30. Ugly old sod, too. Then I realised it was the mirror behind the bar. Two techies perched on their stools beside me, talking shop with heart-wrenching sincerity until Techie #3 walked over, draped an arm over each shoulder and turned the conversation to the staple of men in bars. I checked her out (the girl he was talking about) in the mirror. Yes, very attractive. A gora in jeans bellied up on my other side. That accent? Northern Ireland, it turned out. Didn’t like to call himself a Brit, but definitely more stiff uppah lip than Irish blarney. He was too propah to share my munchies, finished one mug of beer and vanished. No Guinness. Can one get Guinness on tap in any bar in India? I’d make a pilgrimage.

A couple two stools away had an animated conversation. The guy was big and flashy, the kind who takes the mufflers off his bike exhaust. The girl looked altogether smarter. Plump. Nice hands. At one point she put two books back in her tote. Sensible enough to stay away from low-rises and navel show. Strictly no touching, I noticed. Till another girl in a tight T and tighter jeans wandered up, exchanged greetings, hugged the guy a little longer than seemed warranted, wandered away. Wandered back twice more, major PDA each time. Girl #1 looked at her watch, lit a cigarette. Till that point she had been sharing cigarettes with Mr. Flash. In a few minutes she was gone. Flash drifted desolately after her till the door, came back, brushed off Ms. Tight T, extracted a helmet from under the stool, walked out. Tsk. Lack of focus, son. Elvis had a whole lot of songs about it. The least he could have done was see she got home safe.

Santosh behind the bar mixed me a nice vodka with lime and bitters, stopped by once in a while to talk. About soccer and why he supports Italy (Oh, so you’re from CALcutta, sir? THAT explains why you support Brazil!), about the long hours and clients and about weight training. Santosh, you’re a nice guy but I don’t take your b.s. Bicep-curling as much as you can bench-press? Nobody can do that. Nobody. Unless they have severe pectoral atrophy. And I wish you’d let me take your picture.

I perched there for a while, nursing my drink, looking around without making eye contact. The sound was excellent, balanced, the music good but not great. Till a certain guitar phrase dropped into the evening. Contemplative. Almost tentative … think you can tell / heaven from hell / blue skies from rain … That did it. I took over the playlist. My second drink (Smirnoff have an Orange Twist, it’s good) went with Shine on and Walk of Life. They even threw in some Santana. I felt good, even though they started switching off and shutting down at half eleven.

The night air was pleasant. Cars fretted at the crossing outside the Empire Hotel. As I reached K.C. Das, two girls were parking a scooter opposite. I thought Bangalore shuts down before midnight? Maybe they were only looking for some dinner.

St. Mark’s Cathedral was right opposite my hotel. As I passed the wrought-iron gate I could see the portico, the watchman an ominous shadow crouching from the neon glare. And so to bed … If I’d known what Tuesday held in store I might not have bothered to get out of bed. But that’s another day, maybe even another story.

**** ****

Southern Comfort

Photographs and questions. Coming in over Trivandrum, I realise that there are far more coconut trees in the world that I had thought possible, and 87.32% of them are right here below me. Palm-fronds stretch from the sea to the eastern horizon. If I stepped out of the plane in mid-air, I might be able to walk across Trivandrum on the tops of these palms, a Brobdingnagian lawn springy between the toes.

A red gash amidst the green. What is quarried here? Rocks? Gravel? Just the red earth itself?

Monday morning I walked to the sea. Down Radhakrishna Salai to the crossing with Kamarajar Marg. Along the way, more weird glass fronts than a protest mob could throw stones at (ooohhh the lovely music of breaking panes). Obviously this is not the right part of town for heritage buildings. One forlorn house with louvred windows (is this why Cal reminds some people of Madras?) cowered in a corner of a school compound. A large energetic gent in a mundu and check shirt bustled past in a super-walk, occasionally jumping in the air and pumping a fist.

A trim 70-ish gent with Col. Blimp moustaches asked me why I was taking pictures. I resisted the urge to go “Sir, sorry sir” and drawled “Oh, it’s a survey of public urination commissioned by the World Bank.” He was not amused. Afterwards, I felt sorry. But by then he was long gone.

In Chennai, there are no peremptory signs that say “No parking here”. Instead, the signs read “Please do not park in front of this gate”. Such courtesy is charming. I could like this place. One sign on a government building (naturally) warns “Trespasser will be prosecuted”. They know who you are, son, don’t try it again. (One has this mental picture of their waking up to rude graffiti on the front door … the Trespasser strikes again!)

Under the fly-over, past the TTK office, the TTK auditorium, more offices, crossings where the traffic lights change for their own pleasure because nobody pays them any heed at six in the morning, the road is wide, clean*. It’s nowhere near as muggy as I’d expected, there’s a fitful breeze off the sea. A sprightly old man in a spotless white shirt and mundu marches in front of me. His pleasantly dumpy wife trundles along behind her lord and master, swathed in a silk sari (at this hour?); they both have sandal-paste lines on their foreheads. When they reach the next crossing, L&M solicitously waits for his wife to catch up, then takes her hand and hurries her across the road. Softie! (I like.)

Every hundred yards or so I have to hold my breath and speed up to get away from the stench of urine. Not a random pee, but specific points where the pavement is pitted from ammoniacal attacks. With the heat and the humidity fermenting the stuff, it’s like a chlorine attack. Not a single public toilet in sight. Why can’t Sulabh get their act together in this city?

But there are also the smells of incense and of jasmine flowers. A girl emerges from a side road in a chic top and denim skirt; very hip, but her hair is loose and down to her waist and is adorned with a huge bunch of flowers. I sniff appreciatively as she crosses my path. A few steps down, a man is selling green coconuts off a barrow. The scent of a bunch of incense sticks reminds me of childhood and grandmothers. A small shrine takes up the entire pavement at one point. Beside it, more green coconuts and a lady selling flowers. And bananas. A weird combination until you take the shrine into account. Then it fits. I dig out the loose change in my pocket. Using sign language, I get a two-foot length of threaded flowers. Lovely. Lacking hair, I wind it round the strap of my camera bag. Now it’ll smell good for the rest of the day.

Right at the corner, a large walled estate with a few decrepit buildings. Only the government can so under-utilise prime property. Across the road, some kind of para-military headquarters (no signage), a squad lined up in front of the steps in khaki shorts and sweat-damp vests, an officer or instructor bellowing incomprehensible commands in the manner of uniformed drill anywhere in the world. “AAAAarrrhhhh baaarrrrhhh HROOO HRUP!!” Translation – my piles are killing me so I’ll be damned if I’ll give YOU lot any joy!

The beach is … flat. No sand dunes to mark high tide. Hardly any noise of breakers. No sea-tang in the air. There’s an orderly crowd half-way between the road and the water-line. A passing policeman, his little finger delicately linked with a friend’s, informs me that it’s “yo-u-gaH, sairrrr”. But they seem to be waving and bowing rather than doing any yogasana I know. Morning walkers hunker down on the sidewalk. Obviously the morning chat is as important as the exercise. Out in the sticks, the morning dump provides both exercise (since nobody will dump in the vicinity of their own home) and social interaction. In the cities, the ritual remains but the dump has been eliminated. Sanitised version.

On the way back I stopped for a kaapi at a hole-in-the-wall. Right next to another glass-front (blue on brown. Jesus wept!), the Hotel Manhattan. Complete with the “Brooklyn Coffee Bar and Diner”. Next door, four men sat on newspapers spread across the pavement. They weren’t playing cards or even talking, just sitting there watching the morning. Or perhaps they were waiting for somebody. I got good coffee, service with a smile and free advice on whether to take an auto back to the hotel (now that the sun is up). Come to think of it, everybody who’s been of service to me in Chennai has smiled. Wide, brilliant smiles. I’m beginning to like Chennai.

* - About the clean roads … (from a conversation on the flight home). Chennai could be blessed because its infrastructure is not overloaded with free riders. The rural economy has grown not only in Tamil Nadu but also in two of the three neighbouring states. The third has its own metropolis which is closer for the rural refugee. Ergo, there are fewer families trickling into Chennai in search of a living, hardly any shanty-dwellers or free riders. The paradox is that Chennai still has a fairly low CPI. Has anybody done a study of the effect of cheap labour on the Consumer Price Index in these parts? Or vice versa? What’s the real estate growth? I should check.

Parallel thought – West Bengal and specifically Calcutta suffer from the lack of even Class B cities in the vicinity. Which is why the city is struggling to breathe under the weight of its population. Specifically, under the weight of the vast majority of the population who do not or cannot pay taxes.

**** ****