Nostal-Gaya
And it is fun. Remembering old days. Old lives. Old people. Old restaurants. Old hotels. Old routes. Old places. Old friends. Old enemies. Old things I used to say. Old things I used to do.
Like the Bun-Maska at Kyani's at 8.00 AM after a sunday morning basketball practice session at the college court. Like Dabeli on King Circle outside the VIP Showroom that used to be Koolars & Co. Like Chai and Singh-dana on Marine Drive at 6.45 PM with the sun setting, and the couples snuggling. Like Onion Uthapams at 4.00 PM at Indian Gymkhana Canteen. Like Samosas from Guru Kripa as a treat for winning inter-school basketball games. Like 3 course Udipi meals from Ramdev Hotel as a treat for winning inter-school semifinals. Like losing my water bottle every time I got a new water bottle. Like losing my umbrella every time it rained.
All these things and a million more things remind us. Of what we were. Of the days we so obliviously lived, without appreciating those small events that remind us of a life that has gone. We like to reach for that old cobwebbed dusty trunk of memories on that topmost shelf of our brain, where the most treasured thoughts lie untouched, year after year.
Year after Year. As we grow up, and we romance women, and we chase dreams (much like dogs chase cars - we don't know what to do with the dream when we catch them). As we try to emulate those who inspire us, and as we pillory those who denigrate us.
And these thoughts and dreams, and memories are like a warm blanket. They allow us to snuggle, and shrug off the wet cold real world and feel comfortable and welcome. They make us feel relevant. They make us feel like we have a chance at life. The life. As we experience life, and as we stare at unaffordable houses, and as we gaze at BMW and Mercedes convertibles zoom past us on roads that we hope some day will be big enough to accomodate our small dreams and even smaller cars.
But like all good things, these memories must fade. Because that old school you once studied at at the corner of that small lane that led away from the milk booth you bought milk from, everyday for over 15 years, is now a gleaming, glowing, tall, white and gold edifice of gujarati jain affluence, that is at the end of that large road that made sure the milk booth was demolished, and that the milkman was given his mandatory 225 sq feet in some squalid corner of Mankhurd where he doesn't have a hope in hell of restarting his life. Because that English teacher who made you prefect, is not 6 feet under ground. Because the double decker bus where you sat at the front of the bus on the 1st floor and stuck your tongue out at the wind coming your way, is now an exhibit at the Nehru Science Center, and is now a tourist postcard for Mumbai.
Because the world has lost it's innocence. And nothing is now straight and it's definitely not narrow. Because nobody has an equal shot. And work is tough, and relationships are tough. And finding happiness is tough. And realising your dreams is tough. And finding those simple times is tough. There is not enough Nostalgia to go around.
utekkare,
Pranay
A Special Leave of Absence
So there are so many questions to be answered when you have been away for so long.
Like where have you been? and what is it that took you so long? and where did you go? and are you a changed man? and how much money did you get for your ferrari? and where did all your hair go? and what is the meaning of life?
And you find out who your real friends are. Like that answering machine that has precisely 5 messages, 4 of them asking for money past due, and 1 asking you to take a new loan. Like that inbox that boasts of 4358 unread messages, 4357 of which are mass emails, newsletters, bulletins, updates, webmaster gyaan, special offers, viagra education messages, and unsubscribe requests from the utekkare blog newsletter. 1 is from the email company terminating your account because you did not log in for more than 90 days.
And you try and catch up with all that has been happening. Like the Boss's son who used to date, then broke up, and then started dating again, had this miraculous episode where a woman found his potbellied, hair-thinning existence attractive enough to endure a year long courtship, and a marriage that might last many years. Like the Boss's Son's brother who decided that it was too traumatic to endure life alone and also decided that he must inflict his own special brand of life on his wife as well.
And you try and figure out what it is that you did during this leave of absence. Did you embrace Buddhism and explore the depths of the great faith by visiting Varanasi, Gaya, and the beaches of Thailand, especially the one Leonardo DiCaprio meditated on. Or Did you decide to become a divemaster in a beautiful turquoise atoll in the midst of an ocean and ran out of money to open your own dive shop? Or Did you decide to sit in a room by yourself where the fan does not work, and the mattress is lumpy, and you stared and stared at the peeling, cracked lumpen misshapen wall, lit by the dim light thrown by the hanging tubelight in the corner of the room? Or Maybe you felt that you could not stand life anymore and wanted to run as fast as possible. Only halfway to the corner store, you realised you have dodgy knees and you fell down from the excruciating pain the running caused you and spent all this time in rehab desperately trying to feel your knees again.
And when you return, you want to hear the birds sing, and hear the dogs bark, and watch the waves flow, and the politicians die. And you think you might have received an inheritance that wasn't planned for, or you might have received those lottery winnings you bought a ticket for, or you might even have been promoted at work. But that's not your problem. Let the Boss's Son worry about that.
And ofcourse when you are back, its so comforting to hear words of comfort from those nearest to you. Like your partner who asks you when you will turn that damned computer off, and come eat breakfast.. Like the Boss's Son who cocks a sneer at you and wonders how long this latest literary jaunt will last.. and like your own pet dog who just laughs at you with her tongue out.
Well. Only time will tell.
utekkare,
Pranay
Of cities, and thoughts, and places and ideas and cricket and drama
Tirupur is a city without structure. It is sprawling in all directions, and desperately misses a distinguishing feature. Anything would do - a bay, or a sea, or a decently running river, or a mountain range, or even a single mountain, or a national highway that has more than 2 lanes, or a 'demble', or a city plan that had more than just "build anywhere you like, as long as the price goes up" as its mantra.
And since motorcyclists are denser than flies here, so driving on Tirupur roads is an opportunity to exercise mindless dysfunctional autocracy of imperious aggression, as you try to fit 2 indicas, 1 tempo, 2 rickshaws, and 4 passing motorbikes on a road designed for the sedate passage of 1 vehicle in either direction.
As Tamilnadu progresses from Tamil to English, and the people pride themselves on their forward-looking attractions for visiting dignitaries from neighboring and distant regions of suspect vernacular lineages, on display are pictures such as these:
And as they set sail for their elaborately laid out plans for the future, Erode had this to offer as a ladies toilet:
And I have more to share about the last 4 months in hiding.
Like Orlando Airport has developed a special liking for my body, since they frisk me on a Special basis every time I pass through there.
And I have found that I like living out of a suitcase. Especially when the suitcase has international baggage tags on it. And I found out that Chicago Airport is one of the worse Airports in the world.
Like I went to Philly, but neither the Wharton School of Business or Mr Rocky Balboa, set in stone, or the dreary climate, or the saddened Pakistani taxicab driver, or the Marathi-speaking Jew who was born in Matharpakadi, Mazgaon, and whose wife is a travel agent, made a favourable impression on me.
And I went to the States but did not visit New York. And I was very sad about it.
And I went to God's own country in February. But God was in Kashmir . Here is evidence. I found it in April.
And since the IPL has started, so much that was sacrosanct is now being questioned. Like the art of bargaining, especially in the face of some extremely moneyed folks. Like the sacking of Charu Sharma has given me the audacity to question any and all HR policies of Mr Vijay Mallya. Like MS Dhoni suddenly realised the devastating effect relying on Australians could do to his resourcefulness. Like Shane Warne is laughing. At Ricky Ponting, and John Buchanan and the Australian establishment. And Ricky Ponting is laughing at Harbhajan. And Yuvraj Singh is secretly laughing at Rahul Dravid. And Shane Warne is also laughing at Saurav Ganguly, and Virendra Sehwag (after tonight). And Shane Watson must be laughing at Virendra Sehwag also. And Kolkata is laughing with Saurav at Hyderabad. Everyone is laughing at VVS Laxman, and Herschelle Gibbs and Shahid Afridi. And Everyone is also laughing at Sree Santh. But Sree Santh is crying because of Harbhajan. And Harbhajan is crying because of Lalit Modi and the BCCI. And Sachin Tendulkar is crying because of his groin. And Mumbai is crying because of Sachin. And Dravid is crying at himself. And Mr Mallya is crying because of Dravid. And Bangalore is crying because this is T20 and not a test series. And Hyderabad is crying because of complete breakdown of expectations.
And I am unsure of whether to laugh or cry. After all, Duniya Hila Denge Hum.
utekkare,
Pranay
[Travelphabet] Archaic Agra
Stolen from Travelphabet:
The first thing you notice about Agra is it's inaccessibility. It is situated about an hour's drive from Mathura, 2 days stinky train ride away from Mumbai, 4 hours away from Delhi, and has no airports to speak of. Funny, how the mighty have fallen.
From the capital of the Indian Empire from Burma to Iran, it has plummeted to greater depths than the heights it was capable of scaling. It threatened to be a world centre of civilisation, culture, art, crafts, literature, and learning, but never delivered on it's promise. The truth is Agra was manufactured out of a nothingness that doubled as a military advantage. The Indian Army will smile when you say that as they flaunt their cantonment.
But vast numbers of tourists from across the globe, and across our great nation journey their way, braving some of the worst roads, and even coarser tongues to behold the greatest monument ever erected, now falling prey to that other great monument of modernity.. pollution on the yamuna. It is so easy to miss the river altogether, as you marvel at the yellowed marble, you gaze mesmerisingly at the chipped statues, and the intricately damaged carving in the windows, and the grinning guards as they escort you to the fake mummified remains of Mumtaz and Shahjahan. Yes, it is tragic.
And when you have seen the decaying vegetation in the gardens of the non-working fountains, and the tottering gates at the entrance to the great halls, and the hastily scribbled graffiti that proclaim Nasir's undying love for Anjali, and those telephone numbers that will offer you physical gratification instantly on connection, and all those lewd lyrics that would put the great Akbar's bards to shame, you wonder what other great monuments are left to sully in this once-venerated city.
And you are beseeched by agents, and agents of agents, and their rickshaw wallahs, and tanga-wallahs, and the carpet shops, and the jewellery shops, and the artifacts, and the stone shops, and the overpriced handicrafts stores, and you have survived the crowds in the only Pizza Hut that is brave enough to open in Agra, and still serve decent pizza, you are faced with the problem of time. How much more time can I spend here, without reaching for my wallet every 15 minutes?
And so you decide to head for the hotel you booked on the internet.. the proudly Victorian hotel that screams its Anglicised name at you from the Hotel Website Bookings Page - "5 star facilities at 3 star price"; "Newly renovated hotel with old English charm"; "self operated travel agency"; "doctor on call"; "24 hours room service"; "Suites available".... You step through the arches of what was probably once the outhouse of a middle level British government servant, as you glance at the badly trimmed lawns, and avoid the lethal spray of the sprinkler, that seems to be suffering from an overdose of steroids. You walk through the hallway, that reeks of that old mouldy smell that comes from damp, unwashed, fading carpets, and from dust webs that stare down from their vantage point in the corner of the ceiling.
But the real reason you should visit Agra, is not in the city itself but about 50 kms away (about 30 miles), Akbar's walled city of Fatehpur Sikri. It is an amazing amalgamation of unsurpassed military strategy, and artistic brilliance, never before seen. This was the seat of the Mughal Empire, and the sheer magnitude of the city built to be self sufficient for a year or more in case of a seige, takes your breath away. The Indian government has done a commendable job of keeping graffiti artists and other assholes-that-be at bay by cordoning off certain sections of the city that are accessible only to the Archaeological Survey of India. Even after the mahals and the rooms have been stripped of all their grandeur, treasures, and their tapestries and furnishings, you can still sense the power that these rooms were witness to, and it is a surreal feeling to stand on top of the ramparts that command a view of the open plains upto Rajasthan.
And so I say, in this highly incomplete and extremely subjective prognosis, Visit Agra for Fatehpur Sikri. The carpets you get fleeced for while buying are just a bonus.
utekkare,
Pranay
Dancing the Dance
And we are back. To dancing the dance.
We twirl. And pirouette. And we bow. half-shyly. As if apologetic of our skill. As if we are uncaring of how adept we have become at this dance.
In full view. We gyrate, and smile, and move our body, sometimes marvellously in tune, sometimes hopelessly trying to keep up with the beat, trying always to catch their attention.
It is a familiar kind of uneasiness, restlessness, and the hollow feeling in the pit of our stomach, the same kind we feel when we rush down from the top of a ferris wheel, plunging down at the mercy of 4 pinions and a small enclosure from 1000 feet above earth. And we like it. We thrive on it, and get all giddy and excited.
And our faces sparkle, and our eyes glitter, and we are always out of breath, and we are chirpy again, and we are bright and positive, and the world looks clean and nice and happy again. And our enemies dont seem so harsh anymore, and our friends dont seem close anymore, and nothing seems the same.
And the dance is addictive. We keep twirling around ourselves, as if trying to tie ourselves into knots, always keeping in mind that the audience should enjoy the spectacle, without making abject fools of ourselves. Some compromise between privacy and allegory is reached, as we symphonize our life's achievements into a long and intensely personal ballad.
Yes, we are dancing. As much for the other person as we are for ourselves. We dance as if our life depends on it, because who knows, this could be the last dance we have to do. We dance because the thrill of the dance envelops us all, and it allows us a suspension of disbelief. It makes us believe in coincidence, and fate, and time, and god, and karma, and attempts to make us understand how many strings are being pulled by someone else.
And we are as scared of the dance to stop, as we are of having to dance again. We worry about the dance, and all its moves are dissected threadbare, to check for any overt gestures of desperation or looking needy, and to make sure it does not look covertly cocky or pushy. No negative signals must be sent out.
And each dance is customised to the audience it is intended for. So some dances are garish, and full of color and style. Others are silent, non moving studies in composure and pain. Some dances are symbolic of their end-use, while others are a just a sham to cover the true nature of the audience. Others are an appeasement of the senses, while others are like fencing matches and shadow boxing. Some dances run for years, and years, while others end almost before they begin. But nobody tires of the dance. It is intrinsic to life, and it is intrinsic to happiness.
If we dont dance, we will never find happiness. And even if we dance, we are not sure we will find happiness. For most, it leads to a shimmering oasis of temporary madness and hedonistic pleasure. But, it is those precious few, those chosen few in the world who dance the dance, and are rewarded with a lifetime of rest. It is the ultimate goal, and the final destination for all dancers. Even if some are in love with the dance, and not the audience, they are all looking for that shimmering oasis to be the watering hole they need not leave for ever.
And the dance, even though it is public, is by invitation only. For your eyes only. And it feels good to dance the dance again.
utekkare,
Pranay
My God, the Professional Procrastinater
So God walked sleepily into his cubicle 25 minutes late on Monday morning, cursing monday morning tempests, and assinine heavenly spirits who were sleeping while Neptune had his way.
"I've got to create the world this week...", He grumbled as his tie got caught in his stubble as he folded his hands in obeisance at the mirror kept on the pedestal opposite his workdesk. The worst part about working for the Multinational Corporation of the Heavenly Abode (MCHA), was Monday mornings.
He walked down the aisle to the water cooler, and waved his fingers idly at the machine to make him some coffee... As he reached for the cup, he was distracted by the new receptionist, from Hell. She was there on the student exchange program that traded souls between heaven and hell for 2 months to learn about each other's cultures... He took his cup of coffee back to his desk as he stirred sugar into the coffee with an imaginary stirrer...And pondered how to go about the task of creating a world in one working week... while trying to push it off to the next week. As he sipped his coffee, and cursed himself for trusting a water cooler to do a job of a cappucino machine, he noticed that he'd wasted as much time as he could have, legally, before starting work, without being reprimanded by the creator. Nasty thing, that third eye thingy...
Well God decided that no large task could be accomplished without a plan of action being laid out in detail. So he spent about an hour and a half looking for a suitable pad, and then another 35 minutes looking for a pen that wrote well, before he could sit before it, make an impressive headline that read "The making of the World - by God!" and started studying the blank piece of paper with a thoughtful expression till lunch.
Post lunch, God scratched his head and decided that he really needed to show some work, and thought about the easiest ways to create Earth without too much work, and headache. Thats when, after he had chewed through about 4/10ths of the pencil, he hit upon the idea of templates. Templates for men, women, children, grasslands, marshes, rocks, stones, water, oceans, sand, mud, air, clouds, stars, Bangladesh, trees, animals, rabbits, possums, landladies, authors, designers, furniture, Bollywood songs, middle aged American women, kashmiri terrorists, Chilean Sea Bass, Texan Oil Magnates, Pakistani Army Chiefs, seals, snakes, tigers, elephants, cameramen, bootpolish-wallahs, shy muslim girls, dancing peacocks, rain, dust, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, jack frost, santa claus, radio jockies, school principals, and all that the world would contain. HE took about 28 minutes to list down all this and about 10,437,892,135,067,112.43283333333 (recurring) more entries.
And then he sighed. Now that he'd got half the hard part done, he needed to create Diversity now. And it wasn't even 4.00 PM.
God, I hate Monday mornings.
utekkare,
Pranay
A lot to catch up on
And since I am in a half decent mood today, I shall try to dig up all those thoughts I should have blogged when I thought them, where I thought them. But since I am a lazy bum, I will try to regurgitate them here...
So I have been travelling. From Mumbai to Delhi to Tirupur to Coimbatore to Delhi to Goa, and back to Tirupur and then to Mumbai. But the longest journey I made was from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex. And the biggest culture shock is going from Chembur to Lokhandwala Complex.
Like I have finally realised the pleasure of nonchalantly ordering a "double large", and cocking a snook at the waiter when he asked if I wanted ice to fill up the glass in absence of a suitable beverage to mask the taste of the undiluted alcohol poured into my glass.
Like I found and experienced all the things people dont like about Delhi. Like noisy people, and combative irritating people, and expensive food with no taste, and cocky waiters, and horrible traffic, and mindnumbingly vast distances between places, and meetings, and getting confused between vihars, and ganjs, and nagars, and enclaves, and layouts, and kunjs, and baugs, and phases, and roads, and places, and circles, and gurgaon, and noida, and okhla, and cold winters, and roasting summers, and high hotel prices, and even higher alcohol prices, and snooty punjabi women with vacant expressions and buxom bosoms, who look for gold rings on your fingers, and gold chains round your neck, and expensive watches, and who know the difference between silver and platinum but not the difference between pearl jam and linkin park. And people speaking like they know how to speak English, but use behenchod liberally, with a lot of dude, man, yaar, saale, chutiya, and some assorted phrases like chill yaar, to make up for their completely indecipherable pronounciation of sentences.
And I have not experienced the things that people like about Delhi. Like the new Metro.
Like the alcohol prices in Delhi, make me want to hide my pain in South Goa. Until the rates in Goa rise.
Like South Goa is like Calangute in 1996. But now the Russians are there, I think it will take less than 11 months to make South Goa crowded, and irritating, and unpleasant, and commercial, and crass and Gujju for Holiday.
And All small towns in India look the same when you are slightly sleepy, and the streets are whizzing past you. The cows look the same, and the rickshaws look the same and the trucks look the same, and the LCV's trying to wedge themselves in your face in the street meant for 3 people to walk shoulder to shoulder, look the same. And walled cities, and small shops, and old carved edifices of erstwhile successful establishments gone to seed, and small trinkets sold outside colleges, and new gaudy electronics stores with branches, and localised promotions, and international bank branches, and ATMS, and aditya hitkari smiling down at you benignly from Peter England posters exhorting you to be like Mumbai and buy the honest shirt.
And I have seen coconut groves in interior Tamilnadu, and wheat plains in coastal Goa.
Like Anil Kumble is the only man who can kick anyone's ass from the top to the bottom. Hell, hes so senior he could probably kick Sharad Pawar's ass too. Like his wings are now unfurling. Like Saurav Dada and Viru and Sachin and Dravid and Yuvraj and Mahi and Irfan and Wasim Jaffer and Gautam Gambhir and Dinesh Karthik and all the kings batsmen cannot put together 20 wickets for Mr Kumble.
And the ICL came and went. And nobody bothered about it. Sorry, Kapil Paaji, but Kapil Dev da Jawaab finally hai.
And Airports are now fun. And Airport lounges are fun. Watching people look important, tired, happy, sad, united, fighting, unhappy, lonely, busy, creatively irritating, bored, nonchalant, interested, vacuous, alert, unimportant, and silent is always fun.
utekkare,
pranay
