Baroda Blues

I don’t understand what the fuss is all about.

The very fabric of our existence is under threat, some good people Get Out There and DO Something about it, and we call them Fascists? Very Bad. Because Fascists are a Bad Thing, and surely nekkid pictures are Bad Things too. Being against nekkid pictures must be a Good Thing, therefore people against nekkid pictures cannot be Fascists. Right? Far right.

All this hoo-ha, you know, all this secular shekular, very bad only.

I came across this programme on the telly on Sunday night. Barkha Dutt and a load of Wise People talking about the incident at the Maharaja Sayajirao Gaekwad University of Arts, where a student named Lunar Enticer was arrested for threatening the national identity. Many wise things were said, the gist being that we must not say or do anything that could cause offence to anybody. Very nice, in fact the sort of thing I learnt at my mother’s knee, or at least the sort of thing I would have learnt if I had not been busy being a wise-acre.

I fail to understand why some people (Bloggers, This Means YOU) do not understand. This depraved boy Chandramohan produced paintings where religious icons were shown in conjunction with (gasp, sorry!) nekkid figures. Very bad. One Wise Gentleman pointed out that this was the Thin End of the Wedge – if people can paint religious icons nekkid (for example, a naked cross! Even a naked Shivlinga!), they could even paint his mother nekkid! Considering that the said gentleman is in his fifties and his mother is presumably in her 70s, I entirely agree that such a picture must NEVER be painted. I must, however, caution the gentleman that his mere mention of this possibility could offend not only me but also his mother.

(Warning – Long Digression)

What’s more, if this kind of thing is allowed, people might even suggest that the gentleman’s parents HAVE been naked at some point of time. This, of course, cannot be true of Traditional Indian Parents, who are always Fully Clothed. They might even suggest that his parents (shudder) Had Sex. This would strike at the roots of our Ancient Civilisation and Culture, because we all know that not only are Indians Never Naked, we Do Not EVER Have Sex.

Indians hold the proud honour of being the world’s second most populous nation without ANY SEX WHATSOEVER, because ALL Indians are born through parthenogenesis. Some Indians are born from nodding flowers and raging fires, as clearly shown in Indian films, but not one is ever born because his parents Had Sex (or ‘did’ sex, to use the Orkutian idiom). This proud truth is under threat from Indians residing Abroad, so the Guardians of Our Culture should give serious thought (which is the only kind of thought they are capable of) to attacking all the educational institutions that Corrupt Students’ Minds by suggesting that Indians can and do Have Sex.

Some stupid people have suggested that Indians Know About Sex, because they have seen Women Worshipping Shiv Lingas. Such people do not realize that this is a Demonstration of Innocence. These women have never seen a non-Shiv linga (even though most of them are mothers themselves) and therefore approach the holy phallus Entirely Unaware of its anatomical significance. In similar fashion, the temple at Kamakkhya has NO sexual or anatomical significance whatsoever.

(Now back on the main line …)

A group of Morally Responsible Citizens stormed the MSG University, called in the police, roughed up a few students and faculty and closed down the exhibition. Fine upstanding citizens these, demonstrating effective democracy in action. For what is democracy but the will of the greater number? There were more of them (the Outraged Citizens), so they were democratic. Tomorrow or the day after, we may witness a few thousand artists enraged at the Loss of Freedom descending upon these corporators and rending them limb from limb (or other portions of the anatomy, perhaps even those portions that Do Not Exist In Indians except as Spiritual Depictions). That would also be democratic as long as there were more rend-ers than rend-ees. (Though very unlikely, given the wimpish attitude of the intelligentsia so far – no fires, no broken furniture, not a single weapon in sight. One despairs of their democratic ability)

Then the students and some faculty did Something Very Bad. They set up an exhibition that purported to show Indian erotica through the ages. This, of course, was intolerable. India has NEVER had any erotic art. Ajanta, Ellora, Khajuraho, Orcha do not exist. Or if they do, there are no artefacts there. Or if there are, Somebody Else Did Them. Or even if we did, we don’t know anything about that. Just shut up. ShutupshutupSHUTUP. (This is Good Democratic Reasoning.)

So anyway, there was some to-ing and fro-ing and then the Dean suspended the Head of the Arts Faculty. Serves him right – he was actually trying to Support the Students. He is now in hiding, which of course is sufficient proof that he must have Done Something Wrong.

There has been some criticism of the police. Totally unwarranted, in my humble opinion. The police were very prompt in arresting the student. They have not, of course, registered an FIR against the corporators for their alleged ruffianism on campus. This proves their Fixity of Purpose. I mean, being Guardians of Morality, they cannot be seen to waver and Accommodate More than One Point of View. As for being Guardians of the Law, give the poor cops a break, will you? They’re busy enough Guarding Morality, they’ll get around to Upholding the Law sooner or later. Or some time.Like early 2009.

So all in all, this has been an enormously reassuring excise in Defending Civilisation. Next week, we’re going to Burn some Books. And if we get lucky, some authors as well. (The tenets of Guarding Morality are not clear about Burning Critics. This might be Seen as Weakness).

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River's flow

In the haze of the river-morning, I thought a flotilla of small craft was proceeding downriver. Now, as the sun climbs, I see clumps of leaves, vegetation washed out by the tides, slowly floating past the sand-banks into the inner channel that hugs the hedge. As morning drifts to afternoon, the light brightens, hardens, the shadows are sharper and the leaves more still.

Morning and evening, the light dances on the broad leaves of the mallenda as the breeze stirs the waxy white blossoms. The mango trees whisper around their burden of unripe fruit. Shadows soften equally the garden and the distance across the river. Tiled roofs, brick kilns, haystacks and a temple sit astride their broken reflections along the far shore. One man in a pink vest and a conical straw hat poles his bobbing coracle towards mid-stream. As evening draws in, the other bank fades to a smudge in the half-light.

Only the country boats that chug past are clear. Lives float past as I sit by the window, lives defined by their clothes – colourful saris, the ‘bush-shirts’ and nondescript trousers of office-goers (perhaps some are returning from the long flat house downriver, built by the Dutch nearly 200 years ago, where I went to work for some years), the faded photuas­ and ­dhotis of the men who work with their hands. Bicycles, nets, shopping bags. And the beat of the thumping engines floats up to us some seconds after the boats come into view, like somebody beating clothes very fast at a distant ghaat.

Jackfruit trees seem to generate their own shadow. The bloated fruits hang in the bends of the trunks, the leaves especially dark green, an air of faux mystery shrouding these pretenders that are sometimes vegetable, sometimes fruit. Not fair. Only the mango trees should have that dual identity, sometimes dark and sometimes a glistening green, the fruits invisible in the dark of evening but light and bobbing in the light of day, clustering with a promise of plenty that makes the teeth ache as one remembers summer holidays and chutneys from childhood.

Memories. Of course that’s what this morning is all about. From the brilliant colours of a child’s paint-box –jacarandas a startling violet, yellow and red on the other trees – that recall long summer afternoons roaming round Salt Lake in the ’70s, to the orderly flower-beds and hedges that remind me of the years I worked in this district and visited this place ever so often, and the hum of the AC and the faint brown-paper smell of the carpet that bring back every ‘guest-house’ I have stayed in over the last 30 years.

Memories. Lines of coconut palms, their fronds glistening in the afternoon sun, the occasional crow floating into one with its wings spread and feet outstretched like landing gear. Bringing back memories of aching lonely afternoons as a probationer in Chinsurah, sitting in a little clapboard cubicle with a lazy fan, nibbling at a cold ‘vegetable chop’ and waiting for 3 o’clock when the little swimming pool outside would fill with children and their clamour.

The ­luchi at breakfast and the aromas of lunch on the boil downstairs, gobindobhog rice and mutton curry, bringing back a thousand Sundays in a hundred different places. Family sprawled on sofas and beds, desultory conversations, the television alternating between Tom & Jerry and the news channels depending on who usurps the remote. Retreating to the other room for a pipe, the rich chocolatey tobacco smell evoking my study and my rocking chair in my home 40 miles away.

Back to the present. I’ve made a start on my resolution to write a little something every day, I need a shower and my beer is going flat. More tomorrow. One hopes.

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KabzHaar?

Misery comes in stages.

First, the creeping realisation that one has not written anything in quite some time.

Then the efforts to Make Some Time to Write.

One has nothing to write about.

And anyway, other people have written about it. Much better than I can.

Try anyway? Nothing comes. Psyllium husk, where art thou?

Then, to rub it in, nice people offer me money to write. (I shall not repeat not voice my suspicion that they then sit back and gloat over my discomfiture.)

Still, nothing comes.

One might as well write nothing.

Hence this post.

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I am bullshit

This is the kind of thing that puts me off my food. The food descriptions are not offensive, but those tags!

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In other news, the Uncut One (even more sexy now that he HAS cut his tresses, but he has Sworn Me to Silence on that part of the conversation) has been most helpful. Provided radical ideas for marketing jute. Brand Ambassador - Captain Joot in his designer soot, said suit obviously made from ... yes, joot. One can imagine the Cap'n flying in, his Cape of Hessian settling in majestic folds around his sculptured physique (sculpted in the shape of a sack of cement?), assisting bewildered shoppers in their selection of home furnishings. Gripping stuff. The Duck should so take it up for his next graphic novel.

The Great Blogger laughed - sniggered, even - when I pointed out that jute is not, well, derma-friendly. Not to put too fine a point on it, if those super-hero designer undies were made from jute our hero would spend more time scratching than swatching. (He also mentioned Joot-is, have to ask the ShoeFiend about that one.)

Could it possibly be that the Uncut Ideals do not include Taking Jute Seriously? One is devastated.

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Hero reminds me. Latest discovery is Tom Holt's 'Who's afraid of Beowulf?'. Very nice. (He also has a book called 'Paint Your Dragon'. Such joy!) The companion novel, 'My Hero', also plays with the interface of reality and fantasy but rambles far too much and becomes unreadable. Sad.
Woody Allen did it so much better in the classic short story 'The Kugelmass Episode', where "students in various classrooms across the country were saying to their teachers, 'Who is this character on page 100? A bald Jew is kissing Madame Bovary?'"

Should so ask the Jabberwock (and Baradwaj Rangan?) if they can name the '80s Hindi telefilm based on that story. Guesses, anyone?

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From our correspondent in middle age

It’s depressing, but I feel like a paedophile if I find myself leching at any woman under 40. Even more depressing - very few women seem lechworthy any more. The general female population can’t be getting significantly more homely, so it must be me. Ah well.

There are, however, some good things about growing old. I am no longer disappointed by thermostats in hotel rooms. I now KNOW that they’re a kind of logistical placebo and no matter how much I fiddle with them, I will wake up in the middle of the night with frostbite in my toes. Either that, or I'll be soaked in sweat.

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Memories, Madrid

Sentences float through my head, but vanish from the screen. Just opening the lid of my laptop seems to kill them off.

So, memories.


Catedral Santa Maria la Real de la Almudena. The Bourbons have the exclusive privilege of entering through the front door. So I didn't go in. (I prefer the chocolate variety by Britannia)












The little square past the Goo-roo's pad. And the view looking the other way.







The Bear and the Madrono Tree in the Puerta del Sol, the heart of Madrid.
Apparently this is the usual spot for lover's assignations.
All I saw was formidable mamaquitas. Well, almost all.

And the Plaza Mayor as dusk deepens and the lights gleam.
Rather magical.

Line forms to the left ... The Cafe Patas before the performance.

Cerveceria Cervantes - the tapas bar where we met Maria and said goodbye, all in five minutes.













Snacking in style in le maison Goo-roo

And dining at leisure. Paella. Very good.

Where our Goo-roo awakes.

The morning wash. A lane near the Goo-roo's pad.

And the Goo-roo's dining room.

The Goo-roo steps out to meet the day.


Which (for him) usually ends some place like this.

Last night in Madrid, walking back through (I think) the Plaza de Cesar


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High maintenance

Stretched in a huge tub, after a long walk on the beach. A large glass of wine at my elbow, a cigarillo drawing nicely, a bowl of kiwi slices within reach. Very nice. Then the jacuzzi kicks in. Mmmm.

But I don’t really like reds. Especially Sula red.

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Every breath you take

(Op-ed in the Hindustan Times, Mumbai edition, Friday the 13th. A benediction on the Hale Queen Rose and the Token!)

India’s patron saint? Kafka. Or maybe Arthur Dent.

I’d go with Dent. Or perhaps Murphy with his Law.

Every day, working for the government (please do NOT point out the oxymoron, it’s been done) seems a sane option. My employers have framed rules governing my service. They’ve set up independent adjudicating bodies to decide disputes within that framework. Outside my professional commitments, they pretty much let me do my own thing. Blogging? Who cares? (What’s a blog anyway?) Getting published in the press? There’s even a rule that says, pretty much, “we don’t give a big rat’s ass”. Partying five nights a week? They don’t own my booty once it’s out the office door, I can shake it where I like. They’ll even pay me a pension if I stick around for another couple of years. (They don’t pay me much, but then one can’t have everything)

Now if I played cricket for India – correction, if I played cricket for the BCCI, where would I be? No fixed salary, I’d be paid on a project basis. No assured income, my livelihood is linked to my performance. If I’m not good enough to be selected for the Bangladesh tour, I don’t get paid for those two months. Mind you, it wouldn’t be enough to be good at what I do. I’d have to make sure that there’s nobody better than me. So the performance parameters aren’t fixed, they’re floating.

So far, it makes some kind of sense. The Board is paying for the best, they’re recruiting/deploying on a case-to-case, best-available basis. Like insurance salesmen getting the annual bonus, sport is about competition.

Move on now. Who decides what is good enough? The selectors. Are they qualified to judge me? Have they been through the same grind? Well, the Board is getting there. Vengsarkar’s credentials can’t be questioned, Venkatapathy “Muscles” Raju has played enough international cricket. But Sanjay Jagdale? Bhupinder Singh Sr.? And Ranjib gerswoggling Biswal? Check out their records, please. In first-class cricket, these last three have between them 5602 runs and 398 wickets in 155 matches. Their international record is 6 runs and 3 wickets (Bhupinder Paaji) in 2 matches in Sharjah in April 1994. To put that in perspective, Irfan Pathan, who is not good enough to be in the current side, has 1841 runs and 206 wickets from 98 international matches alone; his first-class tally would mean a further 1812 runs and 209 wickets from another 64 matches. A jury of my peers? Give me a break!

So the Board has woken up and decided to appoint professional selectors on the basis of qualifications, pay them and send them round India to scout talent. Like pro sport in the USA. Good show. Except that the Board itself is not the most professional or transparent body around. The selectors could end up toeing the party line. For the time being, we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.

But limiting the number of sponsorships? Come off it! Where does the Board make its money? Television. Where do the sponsors show off their contracted players? Television. So what is the Board saying, in effect? That THEY can make money from television but their indentured slaves cannot. Is that fair? I think not.

Do the players tell the Board to improve playing conditions? Presumably not. They’re labour, not management, and they don’t have an effective union to put pressure on the top brass. Does the public make a big fuss about stadia with no shade, no drinking water, no loos and broken seats? Hardly. At best, they stay away from the matches and watch them on television instead.

What does the public want to see? Not cricket per se, but India winning at cricket. What pays for their entertainment? The ads. What drives the ads? India winning. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The players are big boys and realize that their market value depends on winning. So why should the players be deprived of their cut of the take? Search me. If a player does not perform, his sponsorships will dry up. Therefore, for his own good, he has to perform. What business is it of the Board’s whether he has three sponsorships or thirty? Is it because the Board has not developed enough bench strength to find another set of players if the present bunch does not perform? Ha!

The average player has an effective international career of about 5 years. Sachin’s 18 years at the top level so far, or Kapil Dev’s (not THIS guy’s) 16-year career, are aberrations. What happens to a player after he’s dropped for the last time? If he’s lucky, he gets a benefit match. How much he takes away from that match is a matter of luck and conjecture. The Board’s accounts are still in a mess and they don’t like to be held accountable. Thereafter, if the player is reasonably articulate – or like Srikkanth or Sidhu, suffers from terminal logorrhaea – he gets another lease as a motormouth on television. (See? Television again) The Board does not give him a pension. The Board does not have a rehab scheme for the player to pick up other skills.

So why should the Board come in the way of players making some money while they still can? If Dhoni or Kaif or Rahul want to put away a nest egg, is it right for the Board to stand in their way?

The players should be judged on performance. Perhaps even on fitness levels. Not on whether they make money because they look good in ads (or not – “Palmolive ­da jawaab nahin­­” became a national catch-phrase, but what about Rapidex English-speaking courses?) You know, this entire issue seems to be fuelled more by envy than by rationality – “do you know how much Yuvraj makes from those ads?!”. Doesn’t make sense to me. It’s a juvenile and short-sighted attitude. It could even be counter-productive – the lure of sponsorships could drive players to perform, taking away the contracts certainly doesn’t add to their motivation.

The Board makes money from television, leverages the demand in the market. Sometimes it even uses government arm-twisting to make extra money, as in the recent row over the telecast rights. Now it wants to limit the players’ entry to the same market. I think it’s not fair. It goes against the principles of the free market. Who’s going to stand up to them? Not the players, but perhaps the sponsors will. In one sense, they are the paymasters. More power to them, I say (though Shah Rukh Khan may not agree). What do YOU say?

I'm in love

Or, rather, 'ien louwe'.

This lady has long been the object of my adoration. Now her talents have made me smile even as I prepare to be tarred and feathered by the end of the week.

Ah, Leol-leh, leighd uv mei laive, loire uv mei foins!

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To lighten the gloom

In the middle of a Working Weekend, my spirits are lightened by a URL - http://www.tropicalglen.com/ sent to me by a Kind Person (Who thus Proves that Some Bosses can Be Nice and thus Gives Me Hope).

How many of you knew that BJ Thomas and Leo Sayer were actually on the charts apart from the One Song Each that We All Know About? Well, OK, stop showing off, I didn’t.

Besides, it’s nice to go back through the years and haul out people like Gordon Lightfoot and James Taylor. Not to mention the “Oh-was-THAT-the-year-they-did-Hotel-California” kind of murmur.

But no Eric Clapton ANY year? Have to go back and look for Those Numbers, folks. See you after the 31^st. “If I be alive, and your mind hold, and your Dinner worth the eating”. (Act I, Scene II, if I recall aright, and God bless Mr. Vijayan Bala for drumming the possibilities of blank verse into our thick heads.)

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Painful

Life is bleak and much is wrong with my world. Here is one attempt to look at both sides of a nasty reality. The comments are a little more one-sided, though.

And thanks to the Griff, I now know more about another lasting shame. Are we going to ignore it for another two decades?

Life is very long.

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward / Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you ...

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs / Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest ...

O Lord Thou pluckest burning ...

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Alap esskooj maadi ..

Some people like the rain.

Some are ambivalent ...

Hnothon par se sarak gaya hawa ka libaas

bheeg gayee yaadein, bheegi aankhein.

Kahin utree naa namee aur thodi door tak.
In baarishon ke mausam mein
bas dil hee sookha rah gaya.

Not (I hasten to add) that it rained in Calcutta last night.

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Perfick. Quite perfick.

A morning stroll past the paddock, down the tree-lined avenue with dead leaves and dewy grass underfoot. Three polash trees in bloom, posing in a row at the edge of the 16^th green, like dark Santhal girls in their red-bordered ­saris and red bangles. Afterwards, a time-warp - buttered toast and marmalade in the 19^th Hole. And The Statesman. I’d no idea people still read that paper! But somehow it fits in with the shaded peace and the tang of the marmalade. And the breeze from the fans, that first day of spring when it’s just a little chilly with the fan on but just a little too stuffy to leave it off. The kind of morning when I feel about 12 years old again and a Sunday is a vast expanse of Possibilities.

If only they still had morning shows at Metro or New Empire and I could go watch Mel Fahrer and Stewart Granger in Scaramouche.

A series of very minor Nice Things. Like Lay Down, Sally coming to life as I start the car. Or putting it in neutral at the top of the Gariahat flyover and coasting all the way to the traffic lights at Ballygunge Phnari. The perfect cup of coffee with the morning papers, sitting on the balcony and feeling the day stir to life with bird-song and the scent of green things.

Caught up with T* for breakfast. Udipi Home on Jatin Das Road. A small glow sign outside thanks APJ Abdul Kalam and Viren Shah for the opportunity to serve them breakfast AND lunch at Raj Bhavan on 21^st January 2003. A blackboard proclaims the prices and announces the availability of pickles and savouries. And beds for a hundred rupees a night. Inside, a verandah has been converted into a dining room. The place oozes atmosphere. Stupid me – I’ve passed this place a few thousand times but never ventured in before. The food is outstanding. – dosai with amazing chutneys, onion vadas, followed by strong sweet ‘dancing coffee’. The TF or Tripti (Contentment) Factor is very high, tending towards 1. Bliss.

The whole morning is very Pop Larkin. Perfick. What have I done to deserve this?

It strikes me when I log on. This Simple Desultory Philippic is two years old today. How appropriate. Food. Calcutta. A little nostalgia. Leisure. A few moments of peace, even. Which (alas!) is all that this space seems to be good for. No issues of great import, not enough energy for strong opinions. A sort of Emsworthian potter down the Yew Avenue of life, with the occasional pause to contemplate the floppiness (or otherwise) of hollyhocks, or a detour to give the Empress a comradely scratch along the spine. Faff of the first water, all of it.

And yet, and yet … Thanks to my meanderings here, I’ve got to know Interesting People. I rate ‘Interesting’ far above ‘Nice’, but as a bonus, they’ve been Nice too. Well, mostly. (Stern look at certain Obstreperous Children with No Respect for the Elderly – you know who you are!) I’ve spent huge amounts of time reading their (your?) blogs and following their lives and opinions, but it’s all been worth it. The satisfaction of some give and take in the comments section, the unique pleasure of meeting a fellow blogger for the first time in some unexpected corner of the world. Sadly, no revenue from ads (even though readership is well into double figures by now, thank you very much), not even a nomination for an Indibloggie (cue discreet wiping of single tear) but, after nearly two years, offers to Pander to the Public for Pelf. (I love pelf!).

So, all in all, it’s been rather nice. Very nice, in fact. Oh what the hell - as of now, it’s perfick. Quite perfick. Before I get entirely maudlin - thanks, all of you.

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Jaast-e

(Well, actually reminded by this pic posting)


Port Blair, some weeks ago

The standard "island paradise" shots. Been there, done that. Except that these were from the verandah of my room, over my morning coffee.
















Do they paint the ocean floor for that effect? Naah, not in the Andamans.



















Below - Ross Island, which used to be the Brits' home-away-from-home.


The Andaman & Nicobar chain is made up of 572 islands, atolls and reefs . And sometimes just clumps of rocks. This one is called Snake Island.










Then there's the dark side. The Cellular Jail.






















And there's the utterly unspeakable.





WHY?! O ye Gods and little fishes!




A couple of random "nice shots" (do NOT contradict me here!) to sign off with.

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Shame

The Blank Noise Project is not always moving. Sometimes it's just ... bleah.

Then I read something like this and it feels a little dirty to be a man.

In my defence, I've never groped, assaulted, accosted or solicited^[1] a woman.
OK, that's mainly because nobody's ever asked me to, but surely it should count for something.

Or wait - am I missing the point here?

Whatever.

^[1] - I can't truthfully say I've never harassed a woman. Mainly by being myself. But that has never been gender-specific. Men of my acquaintance have complained of it too. Though the men have been less violent in their complaints.

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Midnight shakes the memory

12:43 a.m.
Dole Poornima.
And a sudden chill wind.


Blair Witch Project, anybody?

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Sadly shameless and petulant again. And pointless.

Those of you who've recently read my other blog (yes, this is a shameless plug) will have guessed that I'm intimidated by erudite intellectuals such as this gentleman. So I was much reassured when I met Vivek online and he said that this video is a close parallel. As the Great One has taught us to say, fun comes. Muchly. [1].

Related thought - say what you will about the USA, they have Letterman, Leno, Conan, Colbert. What do we have? Raju Srivastava and Cyrus Broacha. And (perhaps in unintended fashion) K-K-K-KBC.

But we do have a thriving industry in sex-publishing. Check out the ToI-late Paper supplements. Any day of the week and twice on Saturdays. After such knowledge, what forgiveness?

Saturday morning leavened by a set of puns from a Dignified Friend. The pick of the bunch being -
"Banning the bra was a big flop"
"A man needs a mistress just to break the monogamy"
"Without geometry, life is pointless"
and rather more profoundly,
"Electricity comes from electrons. Does morality comes from morons?"

And a question - why do the Floggy Ladies suggest that my blog should be shut down? I am mystified. And further intimidated. Not least by the possibility of Bole, iskey saath kya Sallu kiya jaaye? (I know, very ouch, but whattodo, Saturday and all that.)


[1] Just in case you thought I could only do links, this proves I can do footnotes too. Relevance is an optional extra.

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Thoughts, cloudy

Breakfast looking out over the rain-stippled pool. A sudden explosion of parakeets. One merges with the crown of a neem tree. Two perch on the stone façade of the next building, clinging half-way up the man-made cliff.

Mid-morning. Looking out over Nehru Park. The weather’s achingly beautiful. A soft rain. Just right for coffee and a smoke by the window while “Bobby sings the blues”. But I lack the time for either.

On a glistening road while the tyres whisper to themselves. Rain in my breath, and on the sidewalks marigold beds gleam through the grey air.

The sun seeps out. Slow sleepy afternoon with the hint of a breeze in the ticking leaves, small distant noises that highlight the silence, a smell of dust and drying rain, the murmur of voices in the next room. Fighting sleep. And memories.

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But kingfishers are BLUE!

Thoughts on the uniform of a Certain Airline -

"What red pants are, as a rule, is unforgiving. You might as well stick a large sign on your behind saying 'Look at this butt!!'"

Quite.

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Nasty old man at airport

Very cool – the gent behind me in the check-in line. Shaven head (but two-day stubble) and choti, anorak over mundu. So comfortable with who he is. Platinum-plated watch discreetly hidden, peeking out only when he lifts his cell-phone to his ear. And speaks confidently but not stridently about “two lines being enough in the Supreme Court”.

Uncool – comb-overs. And Rayban Aviators worn in determined fashion inside a neon-lit terminal.

Also uncool – buckles on shoes, even if the rest of her outfit is neat.

Sad truth – you may pick the shortest check-in line, even factor in trolleys with checked baggage, but there will always be SOMEbody ahead of you whose ticket has Complications. That take (on an average) 23’ 15” to sort out before he can be checked in. While the other queues move, shorten, dwindle in the distance.

Sadder realization – a pretty lady may ASK to sit next to you. And the guy on the other side may be a little scruffy. But when a certain effluvium impinges upon your conscious and you gaze accusingly upon Scruffy Man, you may realize with some regret that it is the Lady who Stinks even if she Has Nice Hands and a Bright Smile.

Uncool – a quilted zip-up jacket worn over a formal shirt and tie. Or, conversely, a tie worn without any jacket; it makes the wearer look like a medical representative. Very 70s.

Very uncool – mincing up to the head of the boarding queue on clicking heels, then looking very surprised when directed to the BACK of the line. You know that look that tries to convey “Oh? There’s a QUEUE? How quaint, but I’m REALLY not used to standing in line”? Well, it looks stupid when she has to go the back of the line anyway. Very stupid. Ha!

Coincidence for the day - I noted the name on No.2, Palam Marg as we drove past. A modest cottage (can't be more than 12,000 sq. ft. on a quarter of an acre) with two other names on the gate. Now Karan Thapar is right in front of me, along with two other men who look vaguely familiar and therefore Must Be Celebrities. At least when in his company.

Uncool to the point of loathsome – man with a belly like a 5-month pregnancy, B-cup man-boobs, shirt open to the third button to reveal three gold chains, several amulets and lucky red cords and graying chest hair. And those shoes that look like wicker-work. (Karthik, you are NOT reading this!)

Unpleasant memory – spending the night at Delhi airport last week. The incoming flight was diverted to Lucknow because of … fog? Technical snag? No. Traffic congestion. The damn airport just can’t handle the load. And I have to fly from this place about twice a month. Brilliant.

So pleasant it’s cool – a flight that takes off on time.

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