Itching and Scratching

Turkish Diaries: Part 9

2015-10-27T19:57:00.003+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

WHATSAPP CALL TRANSCRIPT 0600 HOURS LOCAL TIME, ISTANBUL, TURKEY

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

Wife: Mumma!

Mother-in-law: Yes, beta.

W: Shopping missed. Boo hoo!

MIL: It’s ok, beta.

W: But, I have to shop! I haven’t done any shopping other than buy Turkish tea, several evil eyes of different sizes and shapes, Turkish sweets including delicious baklava and a scarf. Boo hoo! Hoo boo!

MIL: What else do you want?

W: More evil eyes, more sweets and more other stuff. Hoo?

MIL: What other stuff?

W: Err, stuff like, you know, shopping stuff, I mean, good stuff like the ones you get… Boo…

MIL: Like?

W: Like a lot of things… Out of the box, you know, I mean, like, you know, basically, you know, I mean.. Boho…

MIL: Ok

W: Ok. Boo.

MIL: Ok, bye. Have to go back to sleep. It is 4:00 AM here in India.

W: But… Bo…

*call disconnected because of bad wifi signal according to wife but I do not think it is true*

END OF TRANSMISSION

I cannot let this happen.

I checked several different websites and all of them said the same thing – the Grand Bazaar opened at 9:00 AM in the morning. We have a flight to catch at 1:20 PM from Ataturk International Airport (not the one we landed in). The distance was close to 17 kilometers, but thanks to our awesome hotel booking and the awesome Istanbul transport system, we could reach there in half an hour, hopping two trams. So, give or take 30 minutes, if we started at 10:30 AM, we would be prevented from out-businessing chestnut vendors with our vada pav sales after having to resort to living as immigrants.

That gave us an hour and a half, to roam the Grand Bazaar. It would be running tight, but nothing impossible that Shane Schofield has already evidenced from his daring exploits. We woke up early having already packed fully, cleared our bills at the hotel, shook hands with the delightful and extremely hospitable owner, and trudged to the tram station. One stop later we were waiting at one of the entrances to the Grand Bazaar, the one that we had already marked. There were just 5-6 people initially, but slowly the crowd grew. I was reviewing the photos of the days before. And as the clock neared nine, there was a good enough crowd around. Sharp on the dot, the massive, really old doors opened inward and the crowd hastily bustled in.

We joined in and were soon thrust into the deep tunnels of Grand Bazaar. It took us a couple of minutes for the place to sink in. I realized from my research the Bazaar was split into sections which were easily recognizable from the colors on the roof. Not that it made any difference. We had our task cut out; our family had been inventoried and we knew what to buy. Surprisingly, the shops were already open and most of them were either sitting outside drinking tea or dusting the items.

My wife was ecstatic to the core. She hopped here and there, checked out pieces of ceramics, haggling with the utmost ease – a skill that was honed from the umpteen dupattas she had bought from Linking Road, Bandra. I crawled around, sweating excessively from lugging 97.88% of our baggage and knocking the doors of a tired, dusty death.

In half an hour, my wife had come to three inevitable conclusions,

The items had great variety
Goods are more expensive than the ones outside
The Grand Bazaar is a farce

The second was the one that disappointed her the most. It is so overrated that Raja Sen got a brain aneurysm when asked to rate it. The polite haggling apart, the Grand Bazaar is just another market in any other city back home in India. Nothing could be called a bargain and nothing was worth buying. The shopkeepers were earnest and sometimes rather intrusive, but it was all in good humour. Even then, we ended up buying a lot of small ceramic bowls and a t-shirt for my brother that might have said ‘My Brother Went To Turkey and All That He Got Was This T-shirt’.

It didn’t but was close enough.

On the other hand, architecturally speaking, it WAS impressive. And yes, that part of the story about the Bazaar is true; you can get lost very easily. We could not afford this to happen, we were on the clock and so I laid landmark crumbs all the way, following my wife’s rather erratic trail.

Pretty helpful they were, when we actually got lost.

Also, I have the memory capacity of a goldfish ghajini.

After inquiring around, somehow we got out and went back to the selfsame place where we had bought tea, the day before. And bought some more. My wife specifically wanted those Turkish tea glasses, quaint and lovely. We got a couple and I thought she was satisfied.

She was not.

At sharp 10:15 AM, we boarded the tram to the airport. While hopping trams at some random station, where we had to cross the road to get to the other line, my wife’s eye fell on a supermarket.

Let me tell you a small story. Once upon a time, there was a woodcutter. One fine day, when he was cutting wood, his axe fell into the river. The river goddess appeared from nowhere for no reason and handed over his axe. It was a golden axe. The woodcutter refused saying that this was not his axe. Idiot. The goddess dived again and came up with a silver axe. Again the woodcutter refused. Bigger idiot. The goddess tried again and got a bronze axe. The woodcutter was happy and said that this was his axe. The goddess was touched by his honesty and gave the other two axes to him as well, as reward for his foolishness. The woodcutter ran back home to tell his family of his good luck.

That is how my wife ran towards the supermarket.

I was left stranded with the luggage in the middle of the station, checking my watch and swearing. I had no other option. Over the sky walk, over the bridge of my marriage woes, down the other side where the supermarket was located, through the revolving doors, to the cutlery section, to the Turkish glasses, I strode, to find her flushed with happiness and victoriously grinning.

Perhaps, it was a good thing.

We reached the airport without much incident. Remember, I told you can surrender the Istanbul Kart and get the deposit of 5L back? Well, we did. When we handed over the card, it had exactly .08 L on it. Talk of being thrifty.

Just outside the entrance to the airport, we threw open our bags and packed in the glasses and ceramics with great care. We then dumped them in the check-in. Once the boarding procedures and visa formalities were completed, I breathed a sigh of relief and promptly went in search of a restaurant. I wanted one last thing before I stepped off Turkey.

We ordered, took our plates and sat down.

As we chewed into the delicious Kebab Kofte, dark Kuzu Güveç and rice, I looked at my wife. She smiled.

It all came rushing back – the ruins, the travertines, the mosques, the food, oh, the glorious, glorious food, the missed balloon ride, the caves, the villages, the treks, the beach, the museums, the food again, the subterranean funicular, the paintings, the murals, the tram and everything.

We clinked our glasses of Efes Pilsner, to our first trip and one of the best ones in our lives, so far.

Life is good.

Turkish Diaries: Part 8

2015-10-13T19:33:00.000+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Following the immense success of the previous day, like a 12th standard student writing his public exams, I copied the exact same process. Just that it was pointless. Not very different from a 12th standard student writing his public exam.

All the key places that were left to visit were next door, barely 5-10 minutes’ walk for the extremely agile, 10-15 minutes’ walk for the senile and 20-30 minutes’ walk for zombies. We fell into the last bucket. Nevertheless, I wanted to check out a few other places as well and wrote them into the plan, even though it was not asked for.

Just like a 12th standard student writing his public exam.

THE PALACE MOSAIC MUSEUM

Following a breakfast which we were slowly getting to detest, we strode purposefully in the direction of Hagia Sophia which was supposed to be our first stop. This decision was primarily to avoid the crowds. But then we found out that there was a palace mosaic museum covered under the pass, and it happened to be on the way. So we (I) decided to make a small detour. I was met with fierce opposition on this, but then on channelling the inner Justice Katju, I made a strong case and won with flying coloured piglets.

It was beautiful to say the least. The mosaics were supposed to adorn the pavements of courts that were parts of the palace earlier. Although, we had already seen quite a lot of them at the Kariye museum, these were still astounding and the effort spent in recovering them is pretty impressive. We walked through the weird images - animal heads on top of human bodies, hunting scenes of both humans and animals, insignias that were extremely disturbing, amongst other half-baked imaginations.

We left the museum in half an hour.

THE HAGIA SOPHIA

The entrance was in a garden which was randomly scattered with Greco-Roman architecture and other assorted Ottoman sculptures. Our hopes fell a bit at this haphazard and evidently dispiriting arrangement. I already have had my share of experiencing monument farces at the Leaning Tower of Pisa. For god's sake, it is a mistake that somehow was not fatal. Something that would never happen in India, with all the engineers relying on B L Thereja. Even had it happened, at least here would be a scribbled engraving - Raj loves Kiran - somewhere, anywhere, on the wall that could act as a poor claim to fame.

Nopes. Nothing. A very disheartening building.

Coming back, we walked with a bit of trepidation.

But once we entered the hall, our minds were blasted into a million smithereens.

Totally.

Absolutely.

Entirely.

Totally.

Ok, MS word has run out of synonym suggestions.

The last time I had felt such a feeling - the feeling of a million goose pimples and awe was when I stepped into the Sistine Chapel. Not comparing the two, but this was just immense.

We took a calm and leisurely two hours, to completely explore Hagia Sophia from wall to wall.

THE TOPKAPI PALACE

We had seen the palace while we were landing in Istanbul and we already knew it was huge. The palace was supposed to be one of the best examples of the Ottoman construction, structure and culture. The palace is broadly split into four courtyards and the harem, which was housed separately.

The road to the palace was easily found - a throng that very closely resembled Ranganathan Street on a Sunday, populated the avenue to the Imperial Gate. We reached and meandered in. The palace WAS vast; the outside courtyard housing a solitary church that was under renovation to be a theatre of sorts - the Aya İrini (Hagia Irene) church. There was nothing great inside and we proceeded to the inner courtyards, through the imposing Gate of Salutation.

We ticked off the places as we passed by, each one increasingly terrifying in their grandeur and awe striking in their pomp - the kitchens, the Imperial Council, the stables, the Conqueror's pavilion, the Imperial Treasury; most of them, located within the second and the third courtyards.

The fourth courtyard that overlooked the sea was the best of the lot where there were many kiosks or pavilions - the Revan kiosk, the İftar kiosk, Baghdad kiosk and the Terrace kiosk. Each of them offered excellent views of the sea and the city ahead. The last one that we saw here was the Terrace kiosk mosque into which we entered and ascended to the top floor. The view was simply dazzling, the sun splashing jewels of light on the water below expanding away into the horizon.

An imperative photo-shoot followed.

We came out of the courtyard, went back to the entrance, and reached the Harem - the place where the ladies and the womenfolk of the court, had been accommodated. Special entrance fees were extracted from mortals. On a beauty scale from Johnny Lever to Deepika Padukone, the Harem was Sonakshi Sinha. All the mosaics and kiosks and rooms and wall calligraphies we had seen till now, could not hold a candle to the sun that was the Harem. It was lovingly maintained and preserved with every room inlaid with detailed paintings and decorations.

Our brains were still seeing mosaics as we left the palace a good two and a half hours later, down the west side of the hill.

THE ISTANBUL ARCHAELOGICAL MUSEUM

As we walked towards Gülhane Park, we noticed the Istanbul Archaeological museum tucked away on one side. The museum was under renovation but most of the artefacts there, were in mint condition. There were hieroglyphs, sarcophagi, coins, seals, medals, pieces of ruins collected from as far as Italy, busts that were enough to make you go number one in your underpants and statues upon statues upon statues, on display.

The artefacts were as old as 1200 BC and gave information on chunks of history littered across the different eras. They were neatly catalogued and it helped you not to get lost. If you have ample time to kill on a day, this place would be a nice visit. Following the museum, we also quickly popped into the ceramic museum that was directly opposite this. It was more of another kiosk; the Tiled Kiosk and housed some good ceramics. But it was less remarkable than the main museum.

TIP 1: These museums are often not visited that much. But they are very extraordinary and it would serve well to at least spend a few hours. It is loaded with history and memorabilia and very well maintained at that.

Our next stop was the Dolmabahce palace.

THE DOLMABAHÇE PALACE

It is the summer palace of the Turks. Once done with the palace, we hopped trams to go to, literally, the other end of Istanbul. We reached with the sun stinging our skin and messing with our moods. The entrance to the palace looked really great; apparently it was the first palace to be built on the European style.

For some reason, the idiots did not cover it within the pass and we were already done with our quota of harems and mosaics for the century. It does sound like the fox and the grapes story, doesn’t it?

Well, no.

We took a couple of photos outside the place and boarded the tram to Taksim square.

THE TAKSIM SQUARE

It is just a city square called Taksim. It looks like any other European square with offshoots of streets branching away. There were at least ten of them. There was a very clichéd clock tower and a prominent dustbin.

But we found and did something awesome. Remember that old tram we saw the previous day? We took it!

It was very funny. The tram moved at the speed of a bicycle with one tyre punctured. The tram bell did not help its case. But that did not deter people from getting on to it. It went right through the crowded walkway we had walked just the day before. We decided to visit one last museum and stopped just before where it was located, to have a bite and then continue on our travails.

LUNCH

Lunch was, weirdly chicken, and not meat. I think we were suffering from a bout of too much meat, if that is possible. We went into a restaurant that offered plain Turkish dishes and ordered some sort of a Turkish chicken dish. It was just a slice of chicken breast with some mashed potato. It looked and tasted as much Turkish as medhu vadai.

THE GALATA MEVLEVI MUSEUM

This was officially our last museum in Turkey. Yes, it was the same one we had come to, the day before, and were shooed off. This time, we were early and went in. The museum had nothing major; a few notes on the history of the sect and how the artistes learn the whirling. There were several versions of the musical instruments, their evolution, ebru and calligraphies. Outside, there is a host of tomb stones of famous people from the Order, each of them filled with inscriptions.

It was interesting. But we were already tired because of something called the Stendhal syndrome.

TIP 2: Skip this.

THE BASILICA CISTERNS

We took the same route we took the previous day and reached Sultanahmet without much fanfare only to join the long queue to the Cisterns. The cisterns were again not covered under the pass and I was very adamant on wanting to go inside and discover.

That was the last duel I won with my wife. And the reason would come to light shortly.

As we waited, I went and bought a packet to chestnuts to munch. We have never tasted them before and they tasted queer, like mud flavoured peanuts. We did not take a liking to it.

At all.

Anyway, we coughed up the 10TL required and went in. The cisterns were stupendous. Again Turkey had dazzled us. The overall darkness because of eerie lighting arrangements, contributed to the sombre atmosphere.

On top of all this, there was this Medusa column that was highly frightening and hilariously positioned. Because it was on the floor. Also, for a few seconds I had confused the head of Medusa head with the one on my better half. But only for a few seconds. Nothing more.

We came out and then made our way to the next (only) item on my wife's list - the Grand Bazaar.

THE GRAND BAZAAR (cue: Sad music)

Oh well, here it comes. The decision I had made yesterday. The reason for losing any form of clout, I had garnered over the past 7 days. The one that was a cardinal sin. Well, it began on a wee morning, around 4 months back when we were booking tickets for Turkey. My wife made it abundantly clear that one of the main reasons, nay, the main reason she was coming to Turkey was to shop. She wanted to visit all possible shops and buy all sorts of things. It was a hobby that no husband need find a reason to question or doubt.

I understood and agreed. Throughout the trip, I had staved off shopping, citing two reasons.

We have to lug the shopping everywhere and find places to pack them safely
There is always Grand Bazaar to do the shopping at

And oh, did I mention that my wife was an expert and loved to haggle? Reading about the art of haggling at the Grand Bazaar, she was so much looking forward to the event when the gates would be thrown open and the opportunities at displaying her not-so-common art, unravel.

All that unravelled was my self-respect.

We hunted for the Grand Bazaar for a good hour and could not find the entrance. Discontinuing to rely on google maps, we discreetly inquired at a restaurant nearby and they said that the Grand Bazaar was closed for the day.

It was just 4:30 PM. It did not make sense.

And then, a little bit of googling revealed the gaping hole in our (my) plan. The Bazaar was shut in the second half of the day and only on that particular day – a Sunday. Additionally, we had a flight in the afternoon, next day. There was no way, we were going to shop.

Waves stopped crashing. The wind stopped blowing. Mating seagulls halted mating in mid-air. The chestnut vendor froze in the act of vending chestnuts. Everything came to a wavering standstill. I waited for the eruption.

And then she erupted.

The lesser I say about it the better. But it got over soon, I was none the worse; maybe slightly burnt in several places due to the relentless volcanic lava of castigation. I tried to make amends by planning to somehow squeeze it the next day in the morning before we left for the airport. In preparation, I figured out the tram station, the exact entrance that will offer a straight entry into the heart of Grand Bazaar and even the way out.

We walked back to the hotel from the bazaar, pensive. I needed a distraction and some peace.

TIP 3: Do confirm Grand Bazaar timings and plan accordingly. Unless you are not the shopping kind of chap; like me. You are probably handsome too. Like me.

THE HAMAM

One of the must-dos in any Turkey tourist guide, we decided to get one done. I mean, I decided to get one done. My wife was sceptical and even I was not very sure. But then, I reflected with great exertion, what can go wrong?

So, a Hamam is essentially a steam bath spa. Several of these are located in and around Sultanahmet itself. We chose one that was well recommended, very ancient and was relatively clean - The Çemberlitaş Hamamı. Also, it was a boulder’s throw away from the Grand Bazaar entrance and we probably stumbled by it.

There are packages within them as well - a basic self-service Hamam that had you doing everything by yourself, a Hamam with a massage and a bath, a Hamam with a foot massage included etc. I chose the plain package and ventured. This was not the first time I was stepping into a mysterious closed area with half naked people *wink wink*.

Ok, I meant a swimming pool. Gawd, what’s wrong with you guys?

I was given a towel, a soap, a peştemal (a checked lungi torn in half) and sandals (basically, Bata slippers). I went into the cabin on the first floor. The cabin was a small, 10x4 room with a bed on one side and a small plastic pillow. There was a mirror inside and a coat hanger. The room itself was not so private, it was glassed on three sides and walled on one side, alone. And then I went clueless on what to do.

Well, God saved me. Or rather Wi-Fi saved me.

I connected without further ado and read on what to do.

Armed with the power of the internet, I proceeded to do each of them in sequential steps.

So first, you need to have a bath. I undressed (girls reading this can close their eyes if necessary; the simple thought of this statement might give you offspring). I tied the peştemal around me and locked the cabin behind me. There were several attendants to direct you in case you really do not know what to do/where to go. I went into the showers and had a good shower, cleaning out all the grime and mud from the skin.

Next, I went into the main dome. Remember the hamam pic from the first post? Well, I know you don't. The inside of the dome had small alcoves with huge sinks and taps all around that dispensed both hot and cold water. I was given a battered steel vessel (something like the ones prisoners use to eat from) to ladle the water over me.

The second I entered the dome, I immediately started sweating. And this I realized, was what the Hamam was all about. I sweated and sweated and sweated. When it became slightly uncomfortable, I went to one of the taps, sluiced a vessel full of water over me and then again went back to the central raised marble floor (göbektaşı), to lie down once again. The battered prisoner vessel served as a good pillow. I could see my future becoming all hazy, vague and foggy.

I forgot that I still wearing my spectacles and took them off.

I slept off for some time, sweating away.

I woke up and then repeated the same thing again.

Officially, there is no specific time before which you have to leave. It is not an Andhra mess. From what I read, people stay on as long as 7 hours. I spent just 2 hours and was done with it. The alternate sweating, cold water bath and sweating, made me actually feel incredibly fresh. Now, the third thing to do is to take a nap.

I went back to the cabin, towelled cleanly (with another one that they gave) and laid down for some time. I promptly slept off, relaxed and peaceful. I awoke to my wife calling me and then went down. I had a cup of tea, on the house, and waited until she paid and then we left.

My wife slyly remarked that I have become several shades lighter.

I took it as a compliment and a form of apology for the outburst.

*ok, the second photo is not me. You are not allowed to take pics inside the hamam. But more or less, this is exactly how it was.

SNACKS AND DINNER

On the way back, I was explaining her what happened at the bathhouse. Unsure about any form of shopping, we did some small ones near the tram station next to the entrance itself. It included a few evil eye pieces of 3 sizes, a huge amount of baklava and lots of Turkish tea. The place where we bought the baklava is one of the best in Turkey and it was delicious. Yes, obviously we tasted before buying. Turkish delight, we discovered to our chagrin, was not so delightful after all.

We walked on and came across this place that sold the famed Turkish street food - kumpir. A kumpir is nothing but a jacket potato loaded with all sorts of goodies starting from veggies to meat, custom made. Something like a subway sandwich. We ordered one and devoured it, sitting on one of the benches near the tram station. It was delicious and rather filling.

We went back to the hotel, dumped our shopping and rested for a while before we stepped out for dinner.

Dinner was a sordid affair at one of the restaurants near our hotel. The Grand Bazaar episode was still rankling with us and we were sure our shopping had gone for a full toss straight back to the bowler. We munched into our last dinner at Turkey, which was again full of meat and disappointment.

Packing was nearly done. Our last night in Turkey was spent strolling about the by-roads around the park, I had mentioned earlier.

I did not want it to end like this.

And it did not.

Turkish Diaries: Part 7

2015-10-08T22:58:00.002+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

The penultimate day of our trip began with me tiptoeing up the stairs, in the wee hours of the morning, four floors up to the dining room located on the terrace. Most of the hotels/hostels, around the area had similar setups - cramped rooms, mold-smelling sheets, terrace dining rooms, a superb view of the seaport and free, unlimited tea. Dawn was just breaking and I had a mission at hand. Arming myself with a strong cup of tea, a map that I had smartly pocketed from the reception area and a guide that was already lying there, I proceeded to plan out the day.

TEA: Ready
WiFi: Working
WIFE: Sleeping
GOOGLE MAPS: Open
ETA: 1 hour
OBJECTIVE: Infiltrate, shoot and kill all selfie stick owners in Istanbul and escape with minimum impact to the populace.
ACTUAL OBJECTIVE: Plot the most optimal route across Istanbul for maximum coverage of locations
ETA: 1 hour
RISKS: Wife coming in and blasting me for (not) waking her up
MITIGATION: Jump from the hotel roof, then later jump into the sea and swim back to India
CONSULTANT MODE: Turned on. (not what you think, you dirty-minded... wash your brain with Henko)

ALL SYSTEMS GO!

All systems went and crashed.

So, as you know Turkey is split into two main parts - the European side and the Asian side split by the Bosphorus. Additionally, the European side is further split into two more parts, by the Golden Horn. Harnessing all my years of MBA guile, I planned to start from the easternmost part and gradually wind up on the west. We were put on the westernmost side of Istanbul. Staying at Sultanahmet had its benefits, most of the key sightseeing places were right next door and we would be able to do them at any point during the next day. If you were unable to follow any of that, picture this - an idly cut into the shape of a samosa with sambhar running through it on one side and coconut chutney running on the other. If you were unable to picture this also, then please go wash a few vessels at Saravana Bhavan.

Or use google maps.

And so I began.

After an hour of back-breaking work and 2 more cups of tea, there were squiggles all over the map and the guide. I was proud of myself. It made NASA look like a bunch of kindergarten students building a sandcastle out of dosa batter. And then I promptly went back to sleep.

9:30 AM:

After a standard Turkish breakfast of the staple food we had been having so far, we started out. Boarding a tram to Topkapi (the other Topkapi station towards the east of the city) we reached the place without any incident. The sun was out and it was slightly hot. Stepping into the museum, we had no idea what was there - it was just highly recommended somewhere in the guide. We had the first of the many jaw-drops. The panorama 1453 is a 360 degree view of the entire fall of Constantinople, painted on a massive dome. It was just plain breathtaking. After spending half an hour or so, we left the place, dragging our jaws.

10:40 AM:

We took a short walk along the Byzantine City Walls ruins that we had just seen in the Panoramic museum, clicking photos as and when and wherever possible.

The walk was to lead us to Chora Church (Kariye museum) which we again reached without further ado. The mosaics here are some of the best you will ever see in your life (and I have been to Rome, as well). They have been restored well and here is where we made the second best investment - the Museum pass.

TIP 1: Get the Museum pass as well. We worked out the math. Even if you were just visiting Topkapi palace, the Hagia Sofia and one other museum, the entire cost is recovered. Everything else is a bonus.

11:30 AM:

Time for a break. We bought a couple of bottles of water and some talcum powder to battle the heat. We had a long walk ahead of us. Navigating through the wall, we came to a huge bridge spanning the Golden horn. We did not cross it of course, are you mad? It was a highway, for God's sake.

We went further northeast, bound for one of the most beautiful camii's in Istanbul - the Eyüp Sultan Camii. It was huge and situated right next to a hill/on top of a smaller hillock, it offered a grand view of the city's spires. A fountain spewed water listlessly outside. The place was jam packed with tourists, worshippers and shopkeepers. Prayers were just starting; we bolted inside, drank our view of the immense walls and roof and then bolted outside.

There was a sombre graveyard, right next door that could be seen through a crisscrossed wrought iron wall. We walked past it, to our next point.

12:30 PM:

From here, we took the cable car. When I say we took the cable car, we mean we stood in the goddamned queue for a couple of hours. Remember, the Istanbul Kart that we had? It worked here. The view, as the cable car took off, was astounding. The whole of Istanbul, the skyline dotted with mosques, domes, pillars, buildings, bridges and both the inlets shining in the sun like a coiled, sky blue snake. One side of the hill was a cemetery. The cafe at the top of the hill had nothing else, just a bunch of Nair tea stalls with chairs and posh looking names. After a minor photo-shoot and a small walk into the cemetery, we returned back.

1:45 PM:

We walked all the way back from the base of the hill to the Eyüp ferry and took one to Eminönü. This was the closest thing we came to doing a cruise and it was miles better. Also cheaper.

Disembarking at Eminönü, we were hungry. We walked along the bottom of the Galata Bridge that was littered with several restaurants. I had a beer at one of them - they are overpriced and offered nothing other than a view of the Golden Horn which you can have anyway, by standing on the bridge.

The real deal was on the other side.

3:45 PM:

We climbed over on top of the bridge from the bottom and walked along the road. There were many anglers, positioned all along the entire length. I was wondering where this catch was going, when I saw it. Below, on the Karaköy side were the legendary fish sandwich sellers. We immediately ordered one. The chap deftly deboned the fish as it was getting grilled. Once it was fully cooked, he took a loaf of bread, stuffed some vegetables, tossed some spices inside, placed the fish and then handed it to us. We were already drooling enough to irrigate the Sahara. And God, I have no words.

TIP 2: Fish sandwich! Fish sandwich! Fish sandwich!

I really have no words. Not telling anything else. Go book your tickets to Turkey for this one reason alone.

4:30 PM:

Now, we had entered the more modern part of Istanbul and the first tram stop across the Galata Bridge is Karaköy. As we strolled past the crowd, we ran into a Turkish wedding. One of the best men, as we passed the rather colorful procession, was reversing his car and bumped into another guy's car and a small brawl broke out. I was very fondly reminded of Perungudi traffic signal. We then walked through a narrow set of avenues, climbing up the Galata hill. Soon, we came upon a set of paved roads that was crowded with small shops that peddled souvenirs, with hipsters hanging about and a lot of tourists; something very similar to tea stalls outside Ethiraj College. I was pretty sure I saw one guy smoking up.

Suddenly, we saw a huge queue snaking upwards on the road. We wondered what it was and followed. It went on for like a kilometre or so and wound up around a tower - the Galata Tower that were bound for.

We gave up. Even if we had started at the rear of the queue, by the time we reached the base of the tower, my grandson would have kicked me in my groin.

Forward we strode.

5:40 PM:

As the road came to an end, we reached a huge centre that had a quaint tram standing in the middle of it. We enquired and found that it was the first tram in Istanbul. Just as we were taking pictures, it took off with a toot and a bell clanging loudly. We walked to our next point of attraction, the Galata Mevlevi Museum. The place was politely closed. Nah, we were not disappointed. We took this in our stride. We have had worse disappointments in our life.

You better not ask what they are. I will hunt you, kill you and feed you to the three-legged yak I once had the misfortune to come across in Himachal Pradesh while driving a broken TVS 50.

Anyways, we had a show to catch.

6:00 PM

As we traced our way back, we once again reached the point where we had seen the tram and here, according to the map, there was a smaller route that went back to Karaköy.

We were intrigued.

I found the small, unassuming building which apparently housed the station, the map said. As we walked towards, the tram bell pealed again behind and the passengers who disembarked from there, came running towards us. I turned and just raised my hand to say to that I am on a holiday and at the most, can sign a few autographs, when they ran past me into the bowels of the building. I was stung and turned once more to see my wife doubled up in glee. Then we walked to the building and came to the first and probably the only underground station in Istanbul.

It was not an underground train; it was a funicular from Tünel to Beyoğlu which was right next to Karaköy. IstanbulKart to the rescue once again! The ride was thrilling, it felt like an amusement park ride. For kids. No it was not thrilling. But interesting, nevertheless. The tracks went downward and then up, in a concave manner. We reached without incident.

You can read more about it here.

Now we were on the clock. The show was at 7:30 PM

7:15 PM

We had returned to the hotel, refreshed and were now back at the Sirkeci railway terminal. The station was like any other railway station in any other town in any other country. A doleful clerk directed us to the hall. There was a faint, silent murmur that hung in the air within the hall. As we took our seats, we were offered a choice of teas - apple and normal. We took one of each and sat sipping, as other aficionados poured in. There was a huge wall hanging that had a single saying from Rumi. I contributed to the murmur by trying to explain the significance of the ceremony.

The musicians came in and the show started. It was more of a prayer than a show.

The prayer show was good. It was not spectacular, but enthralling all the same. The musicians sang off-key on purpose, the dancing was strained and one of them was actually grinning/smiling throughout the ceremony. It made a mockery of us visitors, but I cannot blame them entirely for vitiating. There were a couple of idiots who were talking loudly and several more who were clicking with flashlight cameras. May the free tea they drank, give them perpetual indigestion.

TIP 3: Book the show in advance. We did it the previous day. There is a very helpful site - click here. Select the closest location and confirm it.

9:00 PM

We came out after the show, slightly enlightened and made our way to the bazaar right outside the railway station where got our hands on a plate of Künefe with ice cream. The mouth and the esophagus were treated to a grandstand view of paradise, as we bit into the crunchy, chewy pudding with the ice cream melting all over it.

We soon walked towards the spice market. It was closing and after having a prolonged, analytical discussion that mostly involved my wife throwing a tantrum, we decided to go through it the next day. This decision came back to bite me in the rear, but later on that.

We scratched our heads on what to do and to exercise the crap out of the massive calorie intake we just had half an hour ago, we agreed to walk to another Camii nearby, the Süleymaniye Camii.

10:00 PM

Eminönü was still bustling with people at this late hour, but the road to the mosque was deserted. We clambered uphill; the wide road had huge flags of the Galatasaray Football Team flags hanging about everywhere.

Following the map, we turned into a narrow walkway steps that went further up. All along the way, we could hear loud cheering, and the smell of beer was generally prevalent. There were wild graffiti on the walls and the place looked quite ghetto.

I straightaway fitted in with my swag and my attire that would have made 50 Cent look like 50 Paise but my wife looked out of place. I told her so and was instantly downgraded to taking the bus to office, for a week.

10:20 PM

After a rather long climb, we finally reached the place and it was dazzling. It was the view that reeled us; Istanbul in all its night glory. We could see the damned Galata Tower, as well-lit as Rishi Kapoor’s costumes and looked damned gorgeous. The inlet was dark but the lights flickered all over the city, fighting with the stars for a place among the heavens.

We were done for the day.

7 Museums, 1 Wall, 4 Mosques, 9 Tram Rides, 1 Ferry Ride, 1 Funicular Ride, 2 Meals, 1 Show, 2 People, 1000 Views, 2 Costume Changes, 1 Cameraman, 1 City – sounds like a Telugu romantic film song shooting schedule. The actual route is as below, mostly.

One more day left.

And it was the best of them all.

Turkish Diaries: Part 6

2015-09-09T02:28:00.003+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Had I written this post on a piece of paper with a fountain pen, there would be big splotches of ink all over the place. Mostly because, I would have been crying from disappointment. And that would still be an understatement to what unfurled over the first half of the day.

We awoke to our ears getting molested by the cacophony of two alarms and the room service landline blaring away. I directed my bleary eyes to the window at the top of the cave. It was dark and there were water trails down the windowpanes indicating a gentle drizzle. Nothing majorly disastrous.

So far.

We quickly brushed, wore some woolen clothes (it was rather chilly already) and walked out in fifteen minutes flat. There was still 10 minutes left to 4:30 AM, the time at which the ~~car~~ ~~van~~ ~~bus~~ four-wheeler, from the balloon trip organizers was supposed to pick us up from this hotel. The hotel where we stayed at, also offered their own balloon rides, and the inmates were already downstairs wolfing down an early breakfast. We quickly gulped and ate what we could; my wife had the forethought to pack some fruits into paper napkins which we stuffed in the camera bag.

The 4-wheeler lorry-van-boat came in ten minutes and we clambered in murmuring sleepy hi’s. It was still drizzling. The driver made several additional stops to pick up other folks and we finally reached a place where the rest of the tourists were waiting. It was a pottery-making joint that we had noticed on the walk back from the Göreme Open Air Museum. Dawn was yet to break. The night’s hangover still remained, punctuated with dark clouds.

We sat inside the pottery cave, which we found to be actually doubling up as a bar and a restaurant. We were given cups of hot whisky and garlic bread. Just kidding. There was just tea and stale Turkish bread. I took a walk outside, constantly looking up at the sky. The drizzle had eased up but the clouds were still there. Vans and cars plied up the hill, carrying deflated balloons and other gear to be in position as soon as the green signal was given by the meteorological bureau, that it was safe to fly.

Around an hour of drinking further tea, standing around commenting on people’s attires, a mini-treasure hunt for the toilet, a mini-mini-treasure hunt for the bum gun and more tea, the organizers finally made a move towards the parked cars and balloons. The whole crowd, there were by now around 40 of us, shuffled towards the cars. Just as we were about to get in, it started raining again. And this time it was real, proper rain. Like the rain that usually populates scenes from Mani Ratnam movies in times of great depressing sequences.

We bolted back inside. Dawn quickly broke and the dark black sky lightened to a purple hue. Within seconds, everything was called off. We were assured our refunds and were bundled into the immigrant-escape-vessels for the trip back.

That is me, looking despondently at the unflinching skies ahead.

Gutted. Absolutely gutted.

It was the second lowest point in my life; right next to the one where I was mistaken for a black guy and an Indian had shuffled over to me, trying to sell me weed. At Mahabalipuram. I had no words. We went back to the room and evaluated our options. We cannot stay over as we had a flight today; there was no way we can come back, since we were going to the other end of the country; an evening balloon ride was again out of the question since we were leaving in the afternoon. To pour out her woes, my wife called up my mother-in-law.

TIP 1: Keep your schedule flexible in Cappadocia. Mother Nature is a female dog and no amount of planning will help unless you have a backup.

That was the time I realized the awesomeness of mothers-in-law. She simply said, don’t worry. Even Hampi has balloon rides. And if you think you are missing the view, you are anyway leaving by a plane. You will have a better view of the landscape than a shady balloon, cocooned with twenty other strangers smelling of toothpaste, sweat and other early morning fragrances.

Woah!

We were still disappointed and I was more so because my wife was feeling bad. For her sake, I decided to make the best of it. Ironically, the skies had cleared by this time.

At around 10 AM, we went to the travel agent with whom we had booked the balloon and got our refund. He was the sweetest agent I have ever met. His details are below. He booked us a car to take us to the Nevşehir Kapadokya Airport. He was absolutely sorry that this had to happen. He even logged into his personal computer and let us copy pictures to my phone, so that we had more space on our memory cards which were running out of space.

In other words, we were drowned in Turkish hospitality.

We had a couple of hours to kill. So we decided to take a walk around the city a bit more. We even had more Turkish coffee to calm our tattered brains and in the process, killed them altogether. We reached the airport in no time and boarded the flight.

The flight journey was the worst in my entire life. Barring the spectacular view that we got once we were airborne. After that it was all downhill, if you know what I mean. It does not matter if you don’t. It was just pathetic piloting. All you guys cribbing about domestic airlines in India, may you get stuck on traffic jams on Old Airport Road all your lives.

The pilot had no clue how to navigate a small turbulence. Our bellies heaved and hurled, I could taste the köfte I had eaten three days ago. The worst part of it was that Istanbul too was clouded heavily. The pilot was struggling to fly, let alone land. I had prayed to all the gods in all mythologies. Finally, he landed somewhat testily and we disembarked with great haste like there were limited edition free vada pavs waiting outside the terminal.

ISTANBUL

The airport was Sabiha Gocken International Airport and it is located on the Anatolian side of Istanbul. So our route options were as follows,

Usually, in such situations I lose the bet. But this time, my wife had some fresh resolve. Also, my plan had more stars and looked colorful.

Crossing the Bosphorus. Have you noticed that there is Boss in Bosphorus?

We dumped our luggage, and ventured out. By the way, it was still lunchtime. Did I tell you about the umpteen chestnut vendors all over the place?

The Qutb Minar of Istanbul.

Lunch was had at Sultanahmet itself, at one of the many restaurants around the tram station. This was where I had excellent vegetarian food, some kind of rice that was spicy, flavoured and seemed a distant cousin of the puliyodharai. It was well accompanied by balkan guveci (a lamb casserole) and vegetarian mussaka (same as mousakka). Well fed and watered, we strode around the place taking a few pictures of the Blue Mosque and then we did the best investment of the entire trip so far – got an RFID travel card/pass.

Lenj is being consumed. From L to R, I don't know. They were just delicious.

TIP 2: Get the IstanbulKart. The amount of money we saved literally halved our travel expenses when in Istanbul. It is easy to use, easy to refill and easy to travel. So easy, that it pales in comparison to making upma. Oh, wait. Maybe, I am rushing into things.

Ha! Fooled you didn't I? You thought this was Kolkata right? IT IS NOT!

The Blue Mosque

Once we were done eating, we stepped inside the Blue Mosque, since that was the only one that was open at that time; it was already 5:30 PM thereabouts. Wife had a fun time, getting into a robe. These robes are available, free of cost, outside every mosque in Istanbul. Do note the clothing restrictions; it makes things easier, particularly if you plan to see a lot of Camiis. After a minor photo-shoot that would have shamed Gaptun’s infamous shoot, we were treated to the first jaw-dropping view of the inside of the Blue Mosque. It was terrifying and glorious, all at once. We walked around, drinking in the awesome mosaic and the calligraphies painted with great care and intricacy. Little did we know that this is nothing compared to what we would be seeing the next day.

The Entrance to the Blue Mosque.

The Inside of the Blue Mosque.

The Rear Side of the Blue Mosque.

Tired from running around the entire day, we needed a quick nap and went back to the hotel.

Dinner or the lack of it:

We woke up around 9 PM and decided to take a walk to the sea. The sea was visible from our hotel (it had a great view). As we walked towards it, we realized that it was a port and was blocked from all sides. Moreover it was pitch-dark and even Neil Nitin Mukesh would have been invisible.

We stumbled by this on our night walk. Interesting actually.

Nevertheless, after navigating a few shady roads, we ended up at a backpackers’ joint. The place was at the apex of a park filled with kids running around in bicycles and a butt load of cats lazing about. We ordered a sheesha, baklava and some tea. We contemplated some highly philosophical thoughts, some of which were so philosophical in nature that I don’t even remember them now. They may have involved a bungling idiot who did not plan anything properly in his life and was better off sitting at home washing clothes or dusting furniture or doing anything that did not require any amount of planning, I am not sure.

TIP 3: Explore Sultanahmet in the night. The lights and the colors come alive. In fact, a night walk just would calm your frayed nerves. Especially, when you have missed a hot-air balloon ri… ok, just take a night walk, man and leave us alone for some time.

Anyway, we relaxed quite a bit since time was the one thing that stood still when you were wired up to a hookah. There was a long day waiting for us.

An excellent end.

Or rather, two long days ahead.

Phew.

Turkish Diaries: Part 5

2015-08-25T15:36:00.003+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

They creaked and jangled in synchronous sway to the gentle ministrations of the padded cushion without either the cushion or the padding. They sang or screamed, I cannot say with conviction, silently. In my mind's eye, they were having a sort of yogic orgy along the lines of this - seizure.

It was very droll and humorous.

Until I woke up.

As I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and shifted my buttocks that were still sleeping, my bones gave a loud ejaculation that eventually escaped from my mouth. They were twisted and mangled beyond temporary repair. My wife was no better off. But then we drew the curtains across and were treated to one of the most beautiful sights I have seen.

GÖREME, CAPPADOCIA

Graveyard with a nice balloon to glamour the place. Looks like Ooty bus stand, doesn't it?

Set against a purplish salmon sky, there were these tiny specks here and there. The rolling hills and landscape added several more shades to the already colorful balloons. All the pain in our bones vanished and we clapped our hands in glee. The bus dropped us off in the center of the city/town/village panchayat union of Göreme. The city square was as crowded as a graveyard and a deathly, chilly wind blew about. It was still early morning, 6 AM thereabouts. We quickly dove into our bags and fished out the pullovers and sweaters and Bangalorised the place. Since there was nobody about and the one or two taxi drivers who were around looked shady enough to be extras in a Subhash Ghai movie, we decided to first check out google maps. The hotel we had booked seemed sort of walkable, so away we trudged, us backpackers.

The hotel was more than walkable by any South-Indian-with-a-paunch standards. We reached huffing and puffing only to hear the receptionist say that she was sorry and that our room was not yet ready; we had reached earlier than they expected and we had to wait. For how long, we asked. For 3 hours, she said. What the bleeding hell, I wanted to say, but she was pretty and I ended up saying, Oh, that is alright. My wife said, what the bleeding hell. The receptionist quaked in her shoes and said, you can leave your luggage here sir/madam. Wife said, ok then. Meanwhile, you can also have our breakfast, she added sweetly. Wife accepted this as the right propitiation for the lax in the arrangements. We entered the small dining room to treat ourselves to a massive spread. And when I say it was massive, it was really massive; there were at least 6 types of cheese, 5 types of bread, 3 varieties of eggs, honey, marmalade, juices, milk, coffee, fruits of 4 kinds, cold meat and other miscellaneous items of questionable mien.

The Göreme Open Air Museum:

Stuffed to bulging sweaters, we had around 2 hours to kill. We decided to take a peek at the Göreme Open Air Museum. The hotel arranged us a cab that dropped us off at the entrance to the museum. We quickly purchased tickets (a museum pass of course) and went in.

The place was jaw-dropping. First from an external standpoint: The museum is a landscaped collection of troglodyte habitations by the Christians who were on the run from the ongoing Turkification. So as they fled to the hills, they came across these natural mushroom-like structures ready for them to occupy. They tossed a one rupee coin and decided to stay here and hide out. Second, from an internal standpoint: they converted most of these houses into beautiful churches. The frescoes in each one of them are painstakingly detailed and gorgeous.

TIP 1: Get a museum pass. Everywhere. Starting here. Also, reach the Open Air museum as early as possible. Most of the Asian tourist groups block out the entrances, stuff their selfie sticks in your face for fun, giggle like circus clowns and pose atrociously imitating an epileptic Vitruvian man. Better to avoid all of them altogether.

The museum pass served two main purposes,

You get to know all items of interest are there in one glance
Express routes everywhere

For example, we had no idea about the existence of the Dark Church aka Karanlik Kilse. And when we did, it was brilliant. The pass also covered another church, Tokalı Kilise, slightly down the road towards Göreme. I had little understanding about the restoration process, but the effort that had gone into this was remarkably evident. Other churches there within the Open Air Museum, namely, Çarıklı Kilise, Yılanlı Kilise and Elmalı Kilise, are significantly smaller but equally vivid. You can keep staring at the frescoes forever; they are magnetic, like Hansika Motwani’s eyes (or maybe not. I don’t know. I am a fan and will be. Forever.).

Sandcastle at Mahabalipuram. Just kidding. This is one of the cave houses.

No. These are not my son's scribbles. I don't have a son. These are frescoes.

After an extensive hour well spent, we decided to walk back to the hotel. From the pamphlet that came with the pass, there was a small church that was nearby. We decided to pop-in for a bit. What was meant to be a simple stroll ‘pop-in’ evolved into a 2 hour trek, all the way up to a forsaken church occupied by a solitary security guard. The church was pleasant and the trek, eventful: climbing around clumps of bushes, following the trail signs, vaulting over surprise streams, waving to other trekkers, wondering where the hell we were and slightly worried if we would be able to find our way back - it was good. Good fun, actually.

But now we were really tired and promptly went back to the hotel. The room was ready as ~~prettily~~ announced by the ~~pretty~~ ugly receptionist and we were escorted into Batcave. I mean it was a huge 2BH room, but cut out of a cave. The bathroom had, get this – thyme-flavoured soaps. My wife lost it and went berserk like a kid who had just got a trampoline delivered by Santa Claus wearing a lungi.

I took a short nap.

We woke up and decided to have lunch.

Lunch:

Now this lunch was one the greatest lunches I have had the privilege to have in my life. It happened rather randomly. We were walking around, looking for agencies to book the balloon trip for the next day when we saw a row of earthenware, advertising something called pottery kebabs.

I was intrigued.

We stepped into one of the restaurants and ordered one pottery kebab along with Manti, which the wife had come across in an insipid blogpost unlike this. Ten minutes later, the waitress came to our table with a small pot. She took a spoon, cracked the side of the pot and opened the top with steam billowing out of the pot. A smell of mint, garlic, cooked tender meat, onions, spices and tomatoes pervaded the area. I scooped a huge ladle of the curry and poured it over some pilaf rice and tasted a spoonful.

ANGELS DESCENDED AND A BEATIFIC CHOIR STARTED PLAYING.

Within minutes it was all over. I told my wife, ‘Nothing can top this.’ She agreed. And then the Manti came. Oodles of pasta with yogurt drooling all over with meat stuffed inside, with a gentle splash of olive oil drizzled surrounded by spicy curry sauce to connect all the different flavours.

THE ANGELS STARTED PLAYING DEATH METAL ROCK.

I told my wife, ‘I was wrong.’ She agreed.

Manti on the left and pottery kebab on the right. Just telling this explicitly for the people who can't make out *snigger*.

After this heavy lunch, our bodies refused to move anywhere. Somehow, we dragged ourselves to the travel agency nearby and booked ourselves a balloon trip the next day.

TIP 2: There is no need to book online or in advance. There are several service providers, all of them offering the standard balloon ride for different prices. It is up to you to select the best one. We chose one that was recommended by the agent. He was a gem of a person which we came to know the next day.

UÇHISAR, CAPPADOCIA

It was still afternoon and we were not sure what to do. So we decided to take a small trip to the Fairy Chimneys (Hoodos) at Uçhisar. The bus dropped us off and we walked around drinking in the view of the gigantic chimneys.

Evil eyes on a tree. The last time I saw something similar was at Thiruvanmiyur temple.

Way too many chimneys but no smoke.

We tried climbing a steep outcrop overlooking the Love Valley and felt the-almost-verge-of-regurgitated-pottery-kebabs giving us indecent signs, that we gave up halfway through. But we managed to scale one peak and quickly took some facebookitiya-level photos.

The aforementioned facebookitiya replete with dark shades and a Telugu hero intro pose.

Soon we returned back to the city center and took a slow, long, lumbering walk around the boulevard skirting the city center. I wanted to have a go at some raki and we entered a place that weirdly looked like a joint for stoners (pun intended). We ordered a glass and it came with a glass of cold water. Aaaaannndddd…

THE ANGELS THREW THEIR INSTRUMENTS INTO HEAVEN’S COOVUM AND BEGAN ECSTATICALLY MUMBLING CHAAR BOTTAL VODKA.

I had it neat like a true Turkish gentleman and sputtered. It was strong, sweet and incensed with star anise. I loved it. We shared that one glass and ordered Turkish coffee to sober down.

Gourd souvenirs at the city center for sale. Don't ask me why they have this. Eeeks!

That was a big mistake.

The coffee too, unpredictably, came with water. It did have the appearance of industrial strength crude oil. One sip and both of us were immediately transported to the busy petrol pump at JP Nagar 3rd Phase. It WAS crude oil. Somehow, after several tries, we finished both and headed back to the hotel to take yet another short nap before dinner.

TIP 3: Try Turkish coffee only if you have your life, oesophagus, liver, kidneys and Honda Activa, insured.

Death by Coffee.

Dinner

I wanted dinner to be a romantic affair. We dressed up regally enough and landed at one of the many restaurants near the city center that had been highly recommended. We wanted to try some more meats and we did; obviously washed down with a glass of Efes Pilsner. Discussions ranged widely from the balloon trip the next morning to the balloon trip the next morning.

Burrrp.

Dead tired, we strolled back to the Bathotel, went straight to our Batcave and into the Batroom, washed our face using the Batwater and towelled using the Battowel, before creeping into the Batbed under the Batsheets. We called up our Batparents asking them to wake us up, since we had to start from the Bathotel at batsharp, 4:30 AM.

The Batcouple slept off.

Fickle luck waited for us on the morn.

Turkish Diaries: Part 4

2015-08-15T11:37:00.000+05:30

To read earlier parts click on the links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

It was with a heavy heart that I pulled away from winning the Nobel Prize for Economics and woke up. It was with a different heavy heart that we got ready that day as we were leaving the first leg of our trip from the beaches and venturing out. My wife had prudently enquired the day before as to the timings of trains departing from Selçuk and we had planned accordingly as outlined in the VIP brief below,

09:30 AM: Depart from Selçuk bound for Denizli

12:30 AM: Catch a bus from Denizli to the North Entrance

01:00 PM: Walk down to Pamukkale

05:00 PM: Catch a bus back to Denizli

05:30 PM: Stare at Turkish chicks

05:33 PM: Get beaten up by wife

05:35 PM: Nurse wounds

10:00 PM: Overnight trip to Cappadocia

Now, even though I would like to attribute this brilliant one-day plan to our highly sharpened travelling acumen, it is with deep disdain that I have to force myself to acknowledge this link. It gives absolutely full details on how to do it. And we followed it word by word, like the time my friend Manhar from engineering copied the answer to describing a 3-phase Synchronous Motor and promptly forgot to return my sheet, ensuring I had to rewrite the answer from scratch.

After a rather heavy, dispassionate and slightly redundant breakfast with the same menu, we bade a cheery farewell to our host and left for the railway station. En route, we exchanged some currency at a jewelry store as advised by the hotelier.

TIP 1: Exchange at jewelry stores only, across Turkey. They give the best rates. The first time we did, that was the best rate we got and we rued for the rest of the trip, wishing we had done more.

At the railway station, we spent a good 20 minutes figuring out where the platform was. There were two railway tracks, but only one platform – the one that we had got off on. Logic suggested that the same train cannot go in two directions and the one going to Denizli must be on the second track. But there was no other platform. A daily commuter on the Mumbai local who would have started with a full crop of hair would have ended up resembling Agassi by the end of deconstructing this conundrum.

We eventually located a small raised concrete thingummy, 1 ft in height 2 ft in width, snugly built between the two tracks. We quickly crossed the tracks and stood on, made to understand that this was it. It was, as they say, it, when soon enough around 50 odd people crowded around the narrow concrete pathway. The train came, we boarded and off we were.

The train journey

The train journey was uneventful. Apart from the fact that I forgot my book – Bartimaeus The Golem’s Eye, while getting off. It was a sad thing to happen. Very sad. Very very sad. Very very very sad.

DENIZLI

Denizli was a stale breath of fresh air, with its skyscrapers and huge buildings. It took us back to our European travails where the stark contrast between country and city had often befuddled and unsettled us. We followed the instructions as given in the link above, deposited our luggage, booked the night bus tickets from one of the several service providers (all of them are the same) and then waited for the minibus to the Northern Entrance of the necropolis at Hierapolis.

PAMUKKALE

The Necropolis

The Hierapolis cemetery is one of the most thrilling and scariest places I have seen in my life. The minibus took us through Pamukkale town and up a small hill, winding through a vast expanse of what looked like the shooting spots of Mad Max Fury Road (it was not) ejecting us out at the even more desolate Northern Entrance to the Hierapolis.

TIP 2: Since the shuttle goes through the town and has a stop there, there will be travel agents who will urge you to get down so that they can accommodate their folks in the van. They will tell you that it is the same thing and that the travertines can be accessed. All hogwash. The same logic as applied at Ephesus applies here - easy coming down than going up.

Walking between the sarcophagi, the tumulus graves, and other scary looking ruins gave us the heebie-jeebies. The darkly clouded weather made it look even spookier, we were almost expecting some ghost to jump up out of a grave and offer us HDFC credit cards. Speaking of depressing, funny things, did I mention the Gujarati couple whom we met in the van along with their two children? We did not make conversation, obviously. But they thought we were from another country and went on fighting unabashedly; the wife doing most of the talking, as in most marriages, blasting the husband to kingdom come for making them walk so much. The husband was mute – what else can the poor chap do? It was a forbearance that I missed and later paid the price.

We made quick time reaching the colossal colosseum within 40 minutes; the walk was peppered with glimpses of the calcified landscape that we were to see later.

The theatre was very similar to what we had seen in Ephesus, only bigger. If the two theatres in Ephesus had a baby and that baby had another baby with the colosseum in Rome, then it would be this baby theatre. The climb is slightly steep and the topmost point is definite to give vertigo. But the view is stupendous, the valley towards the west, the ruins that we had just passed to the north, the town a bit beyond, on the south west.

Suffice to say, we spent a lot of time taking photos.

The Antique Pool and Lunch

After around two hours of walking and taking snaps, we entered the Antique pool. The pool was a complete fraud. It was nothing more than that-blight-of-water-theme-parks, the lazy river. But I wanted to take a dip and so I did. My wife was comfortable sitting it out and taking James Bond-level photos of my rock-solid abs, wading into the pool, wading awkwardly amongst octogenarians in bikinis, wading over half-sunk ruins and wading generally while clutching a toe that I had just scraped painfully against a pretty sharp stone. The water was evenly warm, not hot, and there was this nagging feeling that somebody had just peed in it. With the multitude of kids around, I was really skeptical. But having grudgingly shelled out 40 TL for this, I was not going to waste even one minute. I had a leisurely swim.

After I was done, I was ravenous. We ordered a döner kebab that was exorbitantly priced and tasted like sandpaper wrapped around a brick. Disappointment notwithstanding, lunch was redeemed by the ever-awesome Efes pilsner. We then strode to the final highlight of our day – the travertines.

The Travertines

My brother had long nurtured an ambition of driving all the way to Ooty from Coimbatore on a two-wheeler. The foolhardiness of this goal was obviously lost on him even though highly mature adults (read me and my mother) advised him. But all thanks to an ever-understanding father, he surprised him with a Royal Enfield on his birthday. I can vividly picture that day, when he came home from office to see this brand new RE standing in front of the house with dad holding out the bike keys, mom frothing at the mouth and me eating paniyaraams with coconut chutney. Even after 40 minutes, his jaws were still in take-off mode.

We had a similar reaction.

The travertines is awe-inspiring to say the least and to believe that nature could be so brutal in creating something so increasingly beautiful with every passing second of seeing, was too tough to take in one go. Like kashayam. We were numbed for some time, around 5 seconds after which I took out my camera and started taking pictures.

The next 1 hour or so, we spent descending ever so slowly evading the numerous selfie sticks, a gang of boisterous Telugu people with whom my wife wanted to quickly have a chat and I gave her a look that would have shriveled a tortoise, and other locals who wanted to take pictures with me for some reason. All the way down to the town, we squelched our way through pools and pools of water-filled calcium deposits. We reached the bus stop and ruminated what we had just experienced, while slowly munching authentic Turkish Kwality Walls ice cream.

We reached Denizli as the evening shadows lengthened. It had started drizzling.

DENIZLI

The Best Baklava

We did not mind the pitter-patter and strolled around the city, taking in the smells of baklava and meat sizzling at corner stores, the colorful streamers waving across the roads, trucks emptying electronic goods, cars and bikes waiting at signals and the women with neatly embroidered scarves, girls with tattoos and piercings, men who were selling cheap imitations of mobile phones and jewelry, and kids just returning from school. Out of sheer boredom, we stepped into a bakery at a corner that was run by a small lady who spoke very bad English.

She was just taking out steaming baklava from the oven and ladling them out to trays. Wife suggested that we taste one. We did. And that was the best, softest, wettest and sweetest baklava I had tasted in my entire trip in Turkey. It was highly regrettable that I did not buy there and wasted a lot of money in Istanbul buying the same sweet for a steep price. It was criminal.

And also stupid.

We reached the bus station with an hour to eat dinner and have tea. We walked into one of those many outlets at the station and had another one of those İskender kebabs that tasted quite awful compared to what we had throughout our trip so far. But it was one of those days when the food was not so good but we had already eaten our fill of beauty.

TIP 3: Do not eat anything at any bus station. There are better restaurants outside with better menus at cheaper prices. Always.

The bus was nothing more than a normal KSRTC Volvo bus and was actually slightly worse off. Nevertheless, we were too tired to complain and dozed off.

The next day was supposed to be a surprise at Cappadocia.

Turkish Diaries: Part 3

2015-07-20T22:37:00.001+05:30

To read earlier parts, click here: Part 1, Part 2

Being from Chennai, it was common practice for me to get up early, have a coffee strong enough to knock a gibbon’s brains out and take a walk around the apartment doing nothing constructive, until the maid arrives. My wife on the other hand is wont to sleep late and wake up late; which was nothing new north of the Vindhyas (this is a stereotype I have noticed, so all you tut-tutters can kindly go jump in front of a moving BEST bus). So, as the sun rose colouring the sky a dark purple, I was treated to a miracle. My wife was up, ready and raring to go for a walk. I acquiesced, albeit grumpily having been smoothly robbed of the one trait that I thought gave me an upper hand in marital life.

Our hotel was conveniently located right on top of the Ayasoluk Hill, next to the İsa Bey mosque. We ambled around, taking pictures of a nearby synagogue and the joke that was the Temple of Artemis along with what was supposed to be a bath but looked like a medium-sized mound with a lot of holes stamped by a few elephants on a sugarcane rampage. This bath along with its weird holes on the ceiling has some significance later, when I reached Istanbul (but that is shelved for a different post). On our walk, we encountered several relics of both the Greek and the Ottoman Empires; it was deliciously adventurous. Here you are, calmly walking along a boulevard whistling Maari Theme song and suddenly out-of-the-blue a column addresses your view with imposing authority. You scuttle initially in fright and then in awe and then you slyly shift into DSLR-mode. The column snorts in approval having made its point.

Breakfast

After the walk, which was imperatively populated with even more cats than ever, we reached the hotel and hey-ed the hotelier. We told him we would be leaving in 25-30 minutes and requested him to get breakfast ready. We quickly had a shower, dressed, came out and sat at our first Turkish breakfast, which we discovered were the same across Turkey, irrespective of which place you were holed up. The menu is as follows,

At least 4 types of cheese
Bread (ekmek) and Simit
Homemade marmalade jam
3 types of olives (green, black, pickled)
Yogurt
Cut tomatoes and some random fruit which tasted like cow's feet
Fruit juice
Turkish omelet which is same as normal omelet but made in Turkey
Cold meat which was unnaturally cold and tasty
And of course, tea

After the unashamed annihilation, we burped our way to the hotelier. He handed us a map, gave us directions on what to do and we matched that with the mental plan we had made the previous night. It was all good. We threw our bags over our shoulders, took some water bottles, drew a vinayagar squiggle in the air and began to sight-see.

TIP 1: Take water bottles. There is a fair bit of walking about the ruins and you'll end up getting dehydrated anyway. There are also taps all over the place, where you can refill to your heart's content.

Ephesus:

Our first stop was the Ephesus ruins. There is a trick here. Cabs at the bus station would take you to 3 places: the Mother Mary's house, the entrance at the bottom of the hill or the entrance at the top of the hill. Take the one that goes to the top of the hill. There is simply no point climbing up and down the same hill, unless you still have that Gold Gym membership and you are feeling guilty and depressed at that awesome dinner you had the previous night full of calories and other gymmy stuff. Mother Mary’s house was walk-able from within the ruins itself. So, we boarded a taxi, got dropped off at the hill and started our way down.

Ephesus is simply brilliant. I would suggest an audio guide, but there was no need. Each point was helpfully marked all the way with boards and placards; you would hardly have time to stop, listen and move on. Better still, take a guide from the hotel itself (which is what we did) and read it away whenever you stop. The walk downhill was amazing, replete with a view of the entire valley that was loaded with remnants of almost five eras - the Classical Era (under the Persians), the Hellenistic Era (under the Greeks), the Roman period, the Byzantine era and the Turkish era*. The ruins themselves are breathtaking, culminating at a massive theatre following the equally impressive Library of Celsus.

There was a small detour to the House of Mother Mary near the Northern Entrance; apparently a place where Mary spent her last years. We gave up having had our fill of ruins and went out to wait for the shuttle to take us to the next point - Pamucak beach.

Pamucak Beach:

TIP 2: There are these shuttles that transfer you between points across Selcuk. They are very cheap and are enormously obliging while commuting between key tourist spots. Suggest, you take these instead of taxis that are just plain expensive for no reason.

The beach was on my list mainly because, again being from Chennai, I cannot resist a beach. However far it is, however desolate it is, however tepid the water is. But Pamucak exceeded all expectations and demanded a salary raise; it was very far, was more desolate than Mettupalayam railway station and the water was a dark green peppered with sharp rocks. Nevertheless, nothing dissuaded me from kicking off mine shoes and wading into the water as much as I dared, slightly drunk from a pint of Efes that I bought from a beach-side cafe that had last seen a customer when Alexander the Great waded into this beach with his platoon.

After relaxing for some time under the shade of a palm tree, we walked back to the bus stop and waited for the return trip to Selcuk; ruminating where to go next. We were already tired from all the walking and I could visibly see my glowering wife on the cusp of what I would like to call, the Great Exhaustion Outburst. By some divine intervention, the shuttle came from somewhere and saved me from the jaws of death and blade.

When we reached the bus station, it was barely 2:30 PM. We were famished and entered the first restaurant that we came across. It was 'Mehmet and Ali Baba Kebab house'. We had no idea about the place, though the board was littered with recommendations from Tripadvisor and Lonely Planet.

They weren't wrong.

We sat down on a wooden bench under a mulberry tree; wife suggested that we can eat those mulberries and we did. It was superb! As we waited for the food to get ready, the owner of the establishment, Ali Baba himself, came out and gave free apple tea. We sipped the tea, chewed the sweetly sour mulberries and thought philosophical thoughts. Lunch was obviously sumptuous and included Kuzu Güveç, Çiğ köfte and Dolma washed down with more Efes pilsner (this beer would be a running leitmotif in this series).

Şirince:

Now fully rejuvenated, we trudged back to the bus station and caught a shuttle to Şirince, which is supposed to be a small hamlet known for its wine. The trip was beautiful; there were groves of olive trees littering the hills, as the bus navigated over a minor ghat-section to finally come to Şirince. The best description of the place is 'cosy' and we hiked all the way up to the peak, overlooking the valley. On the way, there were a host of shops with shopkeepers tempting you with their wares that included several wines and homemade soaps. The wife had a sudden memory flash of her brother and gave in to the temptation, buying a few soaps.

Did I mention, they were also dirt cheap?

Right at the peak, we encountered a solitary, Ottoman-designed water tap that gave the coolest water I had ever tasted. The water was slightly saline, but apparently it was potable. There were two horses there as well but they ignored us. We drank the water and sat down to take a breather giving the stink eyes to the horses.

I was very hurt.

TIP 3: Ignore all forms of four-legged lifeforms. They are bad. And rude. And very... *reaches out for handkerchief*

The Basilica and the Mosque:

We caught the shuttle back and reached Selcuk. Our penultimate stop was the Basilica of St. John followed by the İsa Bey mosque. Both were spectacular in their views, one external and the other internal. The Basilica, built right on top of the hill, gave you a bird's eye view of Selcuk and you could make out Ephesus from there. No. Ephesus is not a girl. On the other hand, the mosque was the first glimpse we got into the intricacies of ceiling calligraphy which were prominent across Turkey’s mosques.

The sun was still trying to set, but losing graciously. Once fully satisfied that we had probed our limits of walking/trekking/hiking and our feet were self-dialing ambulances, we went back to our hotel and literally dropped in exhaustion. We decided to have dinner near the aqueduct, next to the railway station. But a nap came first.

Dinner:

After a short nap, that lasted 2 hours, we woke up and got ready for a good dinner at one among the multitude of restaurants around the aqueduct. It was 10 PM thereabouts and the town had just come to life. Dinner had two major highlights - Lahmacun and Cacık. The former is Turkish pizza and the latter, a delectable yogurt dip.

Post dinner, as I was suffering from food coma, I kindly requested 8 hours sleep. Yours sincerely, Sirpy.

Wife was too tired to reply and soon snores punctuated the night stillness of a starry Selcuk.

The best part of the trip was yet to come.

*copy pasted from Wikipedia.

Turkish Diaries: Part 2

2015-06-30T19:30:00.003+05:30

To read Part 1, click here,

Along with a bunch of Malayalee job-aspirants, we boarded the flight bound for Istanbul via Doha. Qatar Airways, one of the few 5-star airlines in the world, has an impeccable airport at Doha. Our stopover, even though it ran to slightly a bit over 4 hours, was bearable, primarily due to the vast airport that had a gazillion things to do. We walked around, mentally taking note of the booze brands to buy on the return leg, checking out the throng of Chinese at the internet kiosks updating whatever god-forsaken social media they have, peeping in to bug the jeweler and check gold prices and eventually wound up near our terminal, with half an hour to kill.

Do you remember that Panchatantra story about a robot that is sent back in time to assassinate its maker so an AI network can win the war and ensure Judgment Day happens? I assume you don’t. We didn’t either. But we spoke about a lot of other meaningful topics such as the marriage woes of our friends, whether we had switched off the stove back home, a minor unnecessary flashback sequence involving our honeymoon trip, office gossip and relatives.

Oh, I think I had failed to mention this. Please find below a snapshot of our itinerary. No need to revert to us at the earliest. Thanks and regards.

As you can see from our thoroughly detailed itinerary, we had booked a flight to Selçuk on the very day we land. This is because, we wanted to travel to the Asian side of Turkey first, finish all the locations possible on that side, before we slide over to the more civilized, and more populated European side of the country; in other words, Istanbul. Now that we knew we were going to spend the majority of the vacation in the Asian side, we had to cherry pick places. There are three items on this list which you should tick off;

The Ephesus Ruins
Pammukkale
Hot air balloon at Cappadocia

TIP 1: Whatever the prices, whatever the amenities, whatever travel agency deals there are; stay in Selçuk. Other places nearby, namely İzmir and Kusadasi are good as well. But it would make sightseeing a lot easier, given that Ephesus is actually just a boulder’s throw, away.

SELÇUK:

We landed at İzmir airport and took the train to Selçuk. The station is very helpfully located directly opposite the airport, but the ticket attendant was very unhelpfully not versed in any language other than Turkish. Somehow, with the help of fellow colonial passengers who were equally lost with us, we found the right platform and bundled into the train.

The train rumbled away; meadows and olive trees greeting us in the fading sunlight. It was a pleasant evening we thought until I happened to glance at my watch and my mind jumped a few metres into the atmosphere and came to settle inside a plate of fresh curd rice. I remembered having corrected my watch at the airport and it was showing 7:30 PM while there was bright sunlight outside. It was like a Shakuntala Devi puzzle. It took us a few millennia to realize that the sun sets very late in this part of the world.

We promptly dozed off.

We awoke as the train chugged into one of the quaintest railway stations I have seen in my life. And right behind the station, loomed the famed Roman aqueducts replete with stork nests. By the time you could say ‘Kumabhishekam’ three times, I took out my DSLR and went off on a photo snapping spree, completely oblivious to the wife belting out choice words in Hindi.

I had forgotten the luggage.

TIP 2: Beware of stepping on cats. They are like red ants, OLA cabs and Thalappakatty biriyani outlets back home in India. They are everywhere.

After a few minutes, when we were out of camera angles and newer words respectively, we trudged around. I was a bit wary of passersby constantly asking us if we would like to eat and alluring it was. The smells that pervaded the place were delectable and the boulevards were so very inviting – tables and chairs everywhere, people consuming chunks of juicy meat, lazy cats dilly-dallying all over the place and a general sense of casualness that I had last seen in the power-point presentation that my subordinate had sent me to review, the day before.

With all thanks to Google’s offline map feature, we finally ended up near a castle/mosque-ish building, thoroughly lost and weary. Our limbs screamed for moov tubes. Throwing anxiety to the winds, we entered a small corner restaurant and out of sheer desperation asked him if he knew our hotel. He scratched his imaginary beard, smiled, just pointed and said, ‘Eet ees right there.’

And so it was.

Our hotel was more like a small cottage with a lovely garden, surrounded by rooms with windows skirted by curtains that were intricately embroidered. And that is where we encountered our first brush with Turkish hospitality. The hotelier chap was so filled with happiness at seeing us that we felt like we had returned from the US and our parents were meeting us at the airport with garlands and a trumpet band. He ushered us to a lovely room with beautiful wall-hangings and a well-stocked bathroom. (I am getting into the weird area usually occupied by MasterChef judges with their superlatives, but what the heck.)

We dumped our luggage, rested our feet a bit and then stepped out to converse with our host in broken English. His inability to speak English was evenly balanced by the effort he put into stressing each word slowly and steadily, almost like a tortoise. We decided to take a walk outside and stopped at the selfsame restaurant we had encountered, deciding to reward the Good Samaritan by having our first meal there. It was already close to 10 PM.

TIP 3: Gold gym members, kindly do not go to Turkey. As for the others, eat, eat, and eat everything you see. Taste everything you see. Tie up your habits, rituals and food-orientation into a small sock, attach a large brick and throw it into the Arabian Sea before you come. It is worth it.

It was fantastic.

To start with, the restaurateur was even more hospitable than the hotelier. He asked where we were from, how long we were staying, what places to visit, what to eat etc. Within half an hour pat, we had planned the next day completely. And then we tucked into the first of our several amazing meals in Turkey – Adana Kebab, an assorted meat platter that included Köfte, Şiş Kebap, İskender Kebab, a side of pilaf rice and a glass of cold Efes Pilsen beer.

It was a fitting end to a tiring day.

Little did we know, how exhausted we were going to get.

Picture courtesy: Wikipedia.org (forgot to take the camera and had to glamorize the post. Will be original, going forward.)

Turkish Diaries: Part 1

2015-06-25T18:56:00.000+05:30

The cricket in the kitchen chirped away to a still screen of Gabriel Macht holding a file, frozen on the television. My wife looked at the watch and told me to book the cab.

It was time.

We had been planning to go on a trip to Turkey for eons. It took a wedding, a small session at a pub nearby and several jealousy-inducing pictures on facebook for us to finally take the plunge. This series of posts is our version of how we travelled as a couple to one of the most beautiful and endearing countries in the world. It is not an indicator of what you should be doing; there are better websites out there that are also better written somehow, although it is beyond me how it is so. One of those unexplained mysteries of the world.

THE PREPARATION:

The preparation for the trip was an arduous, 8 hours of intense planning and googling. As many people might mislead you, planning is the last thing you should be doing for a trip to Turkey. My philosophy is somewhat similar to what a valiant beast of the wilderness, say, a tiger, does after getting up one fine, Sunday morning – decide what to do for the day, on the go. Maybe chill out with the tigresses for some time, play with a few berries, hunt and devour a wild boar and maybe wind up at the nearest watering hole for a nightcap. To quote a famous ceiling fan manufacturer’s tagline – it has to be dynamic.

So, as the first step we booked the tickets. I have married into a family that has slight Marwadi traits of which I was completely unaware of; which worked largely in my favour as the trip progressed and I came to know a little bit more about my better half. Coming back to the better things in life, we waited and waited until the airlines figured that there was this Indian couple who wanted to make a cheap trip to Turkey and decided to lower it a teensy-weensy bit. We sprung, booked the tickets and ran around the room, crying inside at our forthcoming inevitable credit card statements and cheering outside at the onset of a long-due trip to a lovely country.

We had made a mistake.

In the heat of the moment, we had booked tickets for a mere 7 days. It was an error of enormous proportions, which we came to realize much, much later. Don’t run away thinking I will not talk about it. I will elaborate in due course in gory, painful detail that will make any KJo movie seem like an action flick.

TIP: Plan for more than 7 days to Turkey. Preferably 10 days, or 20 days or 42 days or even 365 days; but never 7 days. Or less than 7. Which might be... *goes to get a calculator*

Meanwhile, preparations started somewhat. We googled for some time and then lost interest. It was two months in advance and there was a truckload of time. Procrastination is beautiful.

THE VISA:

Around a month before the trip, came the visa. I found out that I was eligible for an e-visa to Turkey, all thanks to the company I worked with. However, my wife was not. So we consulted leading experts in the market of obtaining visas and zeroed in on Thomas Cook. The second big mistake, but this we realized much earlier.

TIP: Do not go through travel agencies to get your visa unless you have a weird fetish for getting high blood pressure. Apply yourself – it is easier, cheaper and less of a hassle.

After several trips to their offices, with barely 3 weeks to fly, Thomas Cook wanted our marriage certificate for God-knows-gujarati-what-reason. They have a fixed template like an Andhra meals menu for all Middle-Eastern countries; none of which made sense for Turkey. The lady there even went to the extent of lying about a delegation from India flying to Turkey exactly on the same dates we were going. We went solo and got the visa rather easily. We swore at the guy who recommended us the agency and proceeded to go home and have a cup of filter coffee to calm our frayed nerves.

So, everything was more or less set. More googling happened. The googling may or may not have included shopping for clothes; my wife is unable to determine the exact location or nature of this particular memory segment.

THE PACKING:

Yahoo! weather came to the rescue, as we began packing 10 hours before the flight. It was supposed to be partly rainy around the time we were going; so we flung in an umbrella and a plastic shower cap for good measure. Apart from that, we decided to travel light. Please do not attempt to crack a joke asking whether we packed in Philips or Godrej. That sort of wry humour will not be tolerated.

I have made a checklist here of the things we took,

2 knapsacks
2 smaller bags
Clothes for 7 days (me)
Clothes for 83 days (wife)
2 pairs of sandals (for both of us)
1 Burma Towel
Phone charger
1 plastic shower cap
Camera with 2 memory cards and 1 pendrive (very helpful)
~~Selfie stick~~ (which was on the list but we forgot to take)
1 umbrella
2 books
1 soap, 1 toothpaste, 2 toothbrushes and 10 shampoo sachets
1 bucket of enthusiasm
1 small dead cockroach

The phone rang.

The cab had arrived.

I turned off the television; Suits paused at some dramatic point of the episode. I checked my watch for horoscopic auspiciousness and then realized I had no idea what the kaalam was. It was 12:30 AM, if you really want to know. It did not matter.

TIP: Start the previous day itself if you are going to the Bangalore airport. I am not aware of any visa required for that, as of now. Even if it is, strict no-no to Thomas Cook.

We high-fived, blew a kiss to the cricket and stepped out. All that mattered was beginning.

WE WERE GOING TO TURKEY!

Pangs of Guilt

2013-04-22T15:26:00.002+05:30

8:00 AM

Four Wheels:

Arun woke up to a well-constructed symphony of cutlery noises that made Megadeth sound like an S.A. Rajkumar refrain. He glanced at the clock and let loose an expletive. He quickly got ready, with one eye on the calendar, randomly hoping it would turn out to be a Sunday. The calendar remained unmoved and he came to a brilliant conclusion – hope is not random. Which is random, anyway.

He made a ceremonious entry into his wife’s kingdom where she was sweating it out at the sink. To her, he might have as well been Torres scoring a goal; she did not acknowledge his presence. He looked around and gave a despairing look at his plump son who was hurriedly wolfing down a sandwich, lest it evaporated.

“Parvati, I will eat at the canteen. Where is my lunch?”

“It’s on the table. I have made your favorite brinjal fry. Try to come early; we have to go pick up my parents from the airport”.

Arun picked up one of the two yellow lunch boxes from the table and thought for a second.

“I will be late today; you better call them a cab”, he rudely spat and rushed to the car. His wife walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

Six Wheels:

Hari unfolded the morning newspaper as he drank his coffee. The sun rose with a marked disrespect for the moon, even if it was only temporary. Accident, rape, IPL - the more journalists bored into a news-piece, the more boring it became. He folded it back and scratched his stubble, trying his level best to ruminate deeply. He went about four feet, before he gave up and ambled away to get ready for office, after giving a cursory glance at his wife who was sweeping the front yard.

As he knotted his tie, for the 365th time, he wondered what mortal sin he had committed in his previous life. Did he run away with a Raaja’s daughter? No, not Bhavatharani. Did he shoot an arrow into a sage’s rear while the sage was meditating on the economic affairs of Greece? Everything had gone downhill since his parents pointedly rejected the love of his life, called him a nincompoop among other derogatory animal names and got him married to this simpleton. She was lifeless and for some reason, too shy for comfort. His love had a rebellious spirit that sent a stallion riding up his spine. His wife on the other hand, was a female Manmohan Singh at best and probably sent only a drunk mosquito up his spine.

He packed up the steel tiffin box and marched out of the house. From the periphery of his eye, he saw his wife motion to say something, but stopped herself. He disregarded her and walked towards the bus stop, trying to cross the four feet mark.

Two wheels:

Venkat stood in his lungi, as he recounted office gossip to the maami, who stayed opposite his house. She quadrupled up as his Landlord, Clothesline Advisor, Neighbor Relationship Consultant and High Court judge of Domestic Affairs in general. He had fallen back on two rent payments and was sweet-talking his way to buy some more time. As he kept bowling short balls, both of them heard a wail inside. Quickly delivering a premeditated wide, he made a strong but gentle promise to pay the rent next week and retired into the house for the next two months. Take a cue, Sachin.

As he got ready for office, he nudged his wife awake. She had been up all night, watching the baby. He had a strong feeling the baby possessed alien genes, most probably inherited from his mother-in-law. His wife got up, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and walked straight to the cradle.

Gathering up the Tupperware box on the table, he strolled to his bike and started it. He heard his wife say something about vegetables, but he drowned it in the revving sound and sped away.

I was sweating rivulets of sweat, as I ordered a hot tea. The heat was unbearable and the tea-shop owner gave me a look that made me feel I would fit better in a retarded ward. I picked up the tea and sauntered to the shade of a nearby tree. I sipped. Bliss reigned supreme.

Having skipped breakfast, Arun was famished. His eyes meandered around and spotting an empty seat, made way to a table at the corner. So did two other people in the cafeteria. All of them converged on the table and looked at each other with nervous glances not different from three men, who had just winked at the same girl and were too ashamed to admit it. They sat down with sheepish smiles and opened their boxes. They swore in unison. There was beans fry in each one of them. Arun knew it was his mistake, but he blamed it on Parvati. Hari slapped his forehead in disgust. Venkat quietly fumed. They dumped their lunches in the dustbin and went to order at the counter. None of them liked beans.

A crow flew down to the dustbin and started pecking at the beans.

8:30 PM

Arun was driving when he called his wife and told her, "Dress up. We are leaving for the airport as soon I reach home. We will eat out today…. Yeah… Work got over, early… No, I don’t have rabies or fever… Ok... Love you". As she replaced the phone in its cradle, Parvati smiled.

Hari stepped off the bus and started walking back to his house. He spied a jasmine seller and bought a foot of sweet-smelling jasmine flowers. It was the one thing, he knew, his wife liked. He smiled.

Venkat hauled up the groceries and strung them on either side of the bike. He was tired, weary lines creasing his forehead. He just needed to hug his wife and son. He looked forward, earnestly.

Having had its fill, the crow took off. Mid-air, realization dawned that it probably should not have eaten so much without Dr. Batra's pills. It flew around in torpor, with Chennai's sun beating down. After almost 4.32 hours it landed on a branch, cursing. It was time to let go. And let go, it did.

It so happened, I was standing under that selfsame tree, when I heard a plop in my tea and something floated to the top of my tea.

Fire in the Hole!

2012-06-24T20:20:00.000+05:30

I was shaking and moving it with an Anushka (Sharma or Shetty, don't remember), when somebody who was the President of the International Imbecile and Moron Association (IIMA) flung a newspaper wrapped around a shoe. At my head. A head that was throbbing from an over-hung headache and supported a pair of bleary, fermentation-ridden eyes.

I woke up. It was ghastly.

Ghastly is the mildest description available. Imagine a troll standing in front of you wearing knickers/shorts and a vest with a grimace painted across his face, like he just swallowed a piece of bubble-gum that turned out to be bitter gourd pickle. Yeah, that. Add a couple of props, like a tennis racquet and a pair of shoes. And an unwashed shirt.

Flinging my veil of stupor, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My roommate was still standing there, brandishing his racquet. I said the only four letters I could manage.

"Dude".

He opened his vocal chords and proceeded to rape my ears, brain and a passing dove in that order.

"THE MAID DID NOT COME TODAY TOO! WHAT DOES SHE THINK OF HERSELF! IT IS YOUR MIS..."

I went to my happy place and waited until the storm passed. It was not quite long before I knew what he wanted me to say.

"You want me to fire the maid."

"Yes"

I gulped a glass of imaginary horlicks and stood up, arming myself with a pair of argumentative bazookas,

"Where is she? I will fire her this minute."

Now this followed a period of silence during which the raped dove, yelled a few choice words in dove language and Guru Ramdev executed a perfect headstand to a standing ovation. Gas bellowed from my roommates ears and I stood nonplussed.

"I JUST TOLD YOU SHE DID NOT COME TODAY!"

"Oh."

Sheepish. Dumb. I snuggled back under the covers, murmuring 'Mmmms' and 'Okokokokok' etc.

The next day, she came. I opened the door and she went about her work as lackluster as possible. In fact, she was content restricting herself to the kitchen. I blew my 300 hair-filled top. I called her and told her,

"We are extremely displeased with your work. Stop coming from tomorrow. Here is your pay. Please don't ask why."

"Why? What did I do now", she wailed. It is like women never listen to what I say. After 3 breakups and 2 false pretences, I still have not learnt anything that has impressed me enough to modify my modicum of speech. The Vesuvius inside me erupted with a small bang.

"You are supposed to wash dishes! But the algae on the dishes have been reproducing like rabbits. You are supposed to clean all the rooms! You run a random sequence of which rooms and clean, and then forget to clean them as well. You are supposed to wash clothes clean! Not dislodge the buttons and buckles off in the process, helping my teammates watch me saunter in Jockey jatti all day long! In essential, you are completely deplorable and are as much use as a wedding ring to a drowning woman!"

I took a deep breath after this rant. She too took a deep breath and I reflexed into a pink-belt-patented-chop-left-break-right stance. But she said,

"Ok."

I went Wow. That's it? I was expecting something along the lines of hell's fury multiplied by 6.023 times. My stance melted into something else that resembled a mangled mongoose. My roommates went gawking at me. I milked the adulation, fluidly moved out of my stance upsetting a bean bag in the process and stepped into my room, locking the door behind me. It was exhilarating and my adrenalin went a-pumping.

And then I remembered.

The person outside was the cook and not the maid.

Permutation and Commutation

2010-12-08T02:19:00.000+05:30

The macabre consequences of not meeting a man standing with two tickets to a movie titled Piranha 3D is somewhere along the lines of spilling hot coffee down your trousers. I can think of even worse scenarios that may involve a can of beer, an opener and an umbrella, but let us for decent purposes, keep the content "U" rated.

It was a lovely twilight evening that found me waiting on OMR as a dark shape loomed in the distance on an otherwise empty road. As I continued squinting into the headlights of an oncoming lorry, a share auto whizzed to a stop in front of me. The bearded driver looked like he had been driving all the way from Tunisia and implored me with huge Puss-In-Boots eyes that bore the remains of a TASMAC-orgy aftermath. I felt sorry and jumped into the cess-pot. Small mistake; medium error; big consequences.

Your ability to commute in a share auto full of women of all ages is a feat that deserves an aluminum Olympic Medal at the least. Months of my bike refusing to exit the confines of an inefficient service centre had led me to analyze and effectively come up with an awesome strategy on how to travel in a share auto.

There are three geo-spatial locations within an auto, where you can sit and enjoy the scenery of other people's body parts while inhaling the fresh smell of a day's labor in the Chennai sun (Chennai's software companies' air -freshener, if your lady luck sleeps with you).

Position 1:

I call this the Titanic position. Before lewd inferences be made, I call it so simply because it is reserved for the women and children of the soil. Literally. They come armed with sickles, handbags, rakes, compacts and other items of physical torture. And they get preference over any male occupant. Sexist, I say.

Position 2:

This is the Marie Biscuit Position. Allow me to force you to participate in this experiment. You get into the auto and sit in this position for more than three minutes. Once done, get out and find a vehicle that has a good rear view mirror. And then, you are requested to kindly inspect your rear. It will, 7.89 times out of 9.81, resemble a biscuit. Flat and awful to taste. Warning: Never mix the hot coffee experiment with this one.

Position 3:
The Tarzan position. You have a swinging view of the driver's vista which is pretty much like watching National Geographic from a RC helicopter. Except of course, if there is a hot female sitting behind you; in which case you tend to bend and flex your invisible muscles by straining against the usually, frail skeleton of the auto.

Which is where I found myself straining away to kingdom come, en route to Satyam one fine evening. The night was young and I could see with my peripheral vision that the young female behind me was taking more than just a peripheral interest as she sniffed loudly and disgustingly into a tissue. Encouraged, I strained even more at the already shredded tarpaulin that hung at the side of the auto and tore it. Suddenly, Vayu found the time and date, auspicious to take a leak. He promptly did.

Within seconds I was drenched to the bone. Fate had copulated me once more as the tarpaulin barely managed to keep a thimble of the rain away. My shirt exposed my misshapen torso and the image of a wrestler that I had so painstakingly built crumbled all around me like a masala papad in coke. In the words of the pointy-face - Ricky Ponting, "It was utter humiliation".

There is more. Right when my stop came, the rain stopped. I got off, walked to the middle of the road and yelled a few choice words to the heavens. The auto-driver empathized and came to stand next to me. He yelled a few more, better-formed choice words. At the end of the duet tirade, I understood and paid him the fare.

After a rather uneventful bus ride later with the only memorable event being me sitting and irrigating the bus, I found myself at the footsteps of the theater. My friend could not control his glee which made me sulk for some time. The moron that he was, he bought me a hot cup of coffee to cool me off, which I promptly and accidentally threw down his trousers. It was hilarious.

Two hours of visual torture later, we came out with our brains eaten alive by a director who had nothing to reveal than most actresses in the movie.

The next day I went to office in the selfsame auto; sniffing with a cold. I did not meet that girl until yesterday. She was still sniffing and was married.

A Moo(t) Point

2010-10-03T02:57:00.000+05:30

TWO LEGGED VIEW

A great man once spoke, "The toughest thing to do every morning is getting up". Trust me, after having taken the wrong side in an argument that threatened to diss the libido of many a man the previous night, it really is. And on an unrelated note, there was one consensus that Namitha is no competition to Ajith Kumar when it comes to waistlines. Ah, that was real funny.

I woke up groggily and my vision was instantly impaired with a hairy thigh that lay across my torso. Disgusted, I pinched it. It slowly moved away as the owner turned swearing silently in his sleep. I intuitively knew I was late. I quickly got ready for office and waved goodbye to seven gentlemen who were busy in dreamland wooing the Tamilian Circes. Weirdly, one of them was still arguing about Nietzsche with great passion to nobody in particular.The situation was tempting and I yielded.

I stole my friend's only bike keys with the dexterity of an MRTS bus making a three-point turn. Dirty deed done, I scrambled downstairs to the bike and stood next to it, befuddled. At this juncture it is extremely important to note that my grandfather always used to tell me I never knew my own strength. I still did not. I wasted a couple of more minutes on ruminating that and absentmindedly straddled the pulsar. I did the easiest thing first - inserted the key. Once done, I huffed/puffed and whaled the bike off its stand, easing it right into the foliage next to the gate. After fighting off a dozen bees and an enraged mummy Cuckoo, I emerged none the wiser. This time flinging a prayer to Newton, I adjudicated maneuvering over balancing. I finally exited backwards out of the house onto the road. As I slid down the slope feeling like a bit like Felipe Massa driving a tractor, I felt a small bump.

The bump in itself was minor, the reason was not. As I turned to check, all my gallantry scooted. The huge creature stared at me like I had just jumped out of the Voyager in a golden bikini.

It was a cow - a massive specimen at that. She slowly ambled up with reddened eyes and mouth slurping nauseatingly. I screamed, weirdly in Spanish, "El Mojito al cabana intermilano, cow!" and tried to take to my heels and found my progress hindered by a Bajaj Pulsar between my legs. I started to wheel it away. I might as well have been pushing a bulldozer with a Singapore Shoppe hairpin. It moved inches, the cow moving metres.

I yelled for help and awoke the whole neighborhood including the landlord and his daughter/yet-to-be-my-wife. Help did not come, but panic did. I seemed to be missing something big as I threatened by brain with a nervous machete. Finally, the grey cells hit a home run. Mentally thanking the kinky engineers at Bajaj, I button-started the bike. The bike roared to life with the sound of the Tungabhadra dam developing a leak and figuratively threw me off my seat. I opened the throttle and escaped the area in a blur of smoke that could have easily and permanently blotted many a fair skin.

On the upside, it was exhilarating to know what a bullfighter feels like. Quote cow-fighter unquote. I congratulated thine-self and dreamed of the landlord's daughter shooing cows all over Mount Road on a pulsar.

FOUR LEGGED VIEW

A great bovine once spoke, "The toughest thing to do every morning is eating". Trust me, after having been adopted into a motley herd of a couple of malnourished goats, three bitching hens and two bulls it always is. Add to that a master who likes his drink hotter than his wife; life is not all just a river of milk - there is occasional dung thrown in for good measure. After a rather hectic morning of my drunken master milking me dry, I was famished. My not-so-better halves were better off dozing and I had to make good time quickly. I gave my master plan the green signal.

The genesis of The Plan is a great story. You could write an epic on it. But since, in all probability you are dull-headed if you are reading this, you wont. Following that rather brilliant logic, I will just highlight the well, highlights. A passing fly had mentioned on the fly, the presence of new juicy grass blades in the vicinity. After swatting the fly dead with my tail, I started thinking and came up with The Plan. The plan was complex, tough and required all my female cunning to pull off. That would be the genesis. The Exodus and Job come after it.

After following the directions that the fly had so bravely given in its dying moments, I came across an alley lined with derelict houses. I could smell the shrubbery. I kept walking, trying to convert the fire in my belly to hope. I walked and walked and walked and with every step, the gnawing thought that the fly might have consummated me, hypertrophied. After an hour of pursuit I gave up and flopped in front of a gate.

My pondering on the philosophical thoughts of Martin Udder was rudely interrupted by a sharp pain in my tail. As I stood up to unleash my wrath on whoever the jackass was, I saw a clump of the lovely grass stuck to the jackass' machine. There was a human sitting on it, who looked like he was shitting bricks. My eyes went green and I stumbled forward thanking Nandi for the fly's honesty. The human panicked and suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke. I swore and turned to the now ajar gate. My eyes fell on the foliage.

It was a feast I tell you. I congratulated thine-self and dreamed of Amsterdam with their wonderful grass.

Oh, it is a moo(t) point there.

Talking in Her Shoes

2010-04-30T15:35:00.000+05:30

I scampered into the auto behind my friend, both of us covered in foul-smelling sweat like Sunanda Pushkar's stake. The auto sped away from Bandra station after it played a brief round of energetic Kho-Kho with a rabid policeman and away we were to do some shopping.

My friend (lets call him Mr. India for namesake) was on a mission. The mission was as lame as can be; actually not so much since it involved buying slippers for his fiancee.

I had, perchance, seem to have boasted of my ample shopping expertise with various women in and around my childhood neighbourhood. Mr. India usually hardly pays attention to my tattles and is more involved with the mosquito that has gone up his nose, the blue sky and other matters of cardinal significance. But as luck would have it, this fact fell on his ears, traveled up the cochineal fluid and built a 10-story apartment in his brain. What did not get any portion of the dukedom was the fact that by expertise, I meant standing around, drinking diluted Fanta and eyeballing other females purchasing sarees, slippers, handbags, jewelery and miscellaneous foibles.

Mr. India was in full gear for the mission. He had the exact pencil outline of his fiancee's foot, the sizes according to American, Rhodesian, Swedish and English conversion tables, an extra bulge to his rear suggesting a stuffed wallet and implicit confidence in me. He had a glint of will in his eyes akin to the egregious Mel Gibson beating the crap out of a dozen tribal species. And vice-versa.

Or not.

Mr India had no outline, no size, no money and there were butterflies happily laying eggs in his stomach lining. I was supposed to be his saviour. I felt overrated for the first time in my life. The auto flung its occupants out on Linking Road, Bandra. The road was strewed with shops that sold all sorts of female paraphernalia. We stood and gaped at the future outflows of our hard-earned salaries. After a couple of flies died their natural death inside our mouths, we moved to one end of the pavement and started a mini GD where we evaluated the various criteria to identify the right shop to target.

As all GDs go, we shouted till we were hoarse. But there was a consensus. We randomized and selected a shop that seemed to look exactly like one that a girl would be interested in - colorful, bouffant and did I mention colorful? As we bustled through the milling gang of squeaking college girls, the bearded shopkeeper quit sizing the girls and began sizing us up. It was uncanny.

"Kya chaahiye?", he asked in a voice that subtly underlined the fact that we were guys. We did feel like a couple of polar bears let loose on Mount Road in summer.

We opened our mouths and that is when the faeces hit the rotating electrical appliance.

A small flashback. Both our ancestors loved dosai. All the subsequent generations too loved it. With a dash of chutney and drop of spicy sambhar, it was Amrit. Not the girl; the food. Both my friend and I were no exceptions. The relevancy of this information rests on the inference that both of us were hard core Tams. There was no escaping it. Inevitably, Hindi was French to us. So French, that we refused to acknowledge it even existed. Thousands of Amits, Poojas, Nehas, Ranbirs and Shwetanks advised us the importance of learning it, being in Mumbai. They said the probability of survival is very low if we were bereft of the ability of speaking the language.

We discovered that it was not low - it was zero. As we gestured frantically in broken Hindi and Kaveri-an gymnastics, a small crowd gathered outside the shop to watch the camaraderie. It was not at all funny.

My friend proposed his interest to buy slippers for his fiancee. We never understood what the shopkeeper understood but he went in and returned with a pair of horseshoes. It was racist to say the least. I stepped in to play my part.

I pointed to my friend and said, "Same height, what size?". The man again disappeared into the bowels of his establishment and returned with a pair of slippers that would have fit a hippopotamus. I gulped as my friend exclaimed, "Nahin! Nahin! Kuch kuch hota. Chotta Shakeela!". The shopkeeper acted bewildered. To the tee.

By now the crowd was in complete splits. I swore in rapid Tamizh to my friend and told him that we might as well go to Nariman Point and throw pieces of Medu Vadai at the Taj Mahal Hotel. And then a wondrous thing happened.

The shopkeeper said in clear, spaced words - "You from Chennai?". It was in perfect Tamil.
We looked at him and we looked at each other. We then hugged and laughed for the first time that evening. Though the hug evoked a nettled babble among the crowd, it was obvious that the show was over.

Twenty minutes later we were 300 rupees poorer and we had a fantastic pair of slippers. At least to us. We were joyous. We were least bothered about the size, the color and the design as we went by male intuition.

Anti Climax:
The slippers fit alright. It was the right color too. Just that Mr. India's fiancee already had a pair like that which she had bought for 100 bucks at Spencer Plaza. He got an earful. At that exact time, I was busy assisting my cousin shop for handbags. Male intuition? Bollocks.

Hairline Fracture

2010-04-18T19:03:00.006+05:30

The other day I was standing at the Shampoo rack in Big Bazaar scratching my beard when I stumbled headlong into this rather poor joke. It was so poor that I felt inanely ashamed I possessed the indecency of such an intellect. It was, but, a mere reflection of my frustration and agony.

"What is the difference between a hunter and a day trader? Simple. One shoots at hares and the other hoots at shares."

This story of the aforementioned frustration is almost 23 years ago and actually runs for 23 years in chronology. It started with my Patti. My Patti is a hardcore homeopath - no pills attached. According to her Rapidex English-Tamil-English dictionary, Clinic translated to chemical which in turn translated to evil MNC fluid. She believes that the Earth is a single life-form where we exist symbiotically to preserve each other. This does seem similar to Cameron's blue film - Avatar; but I trust my patti more than than the guy who taught the world that pencil sketching was the way to get into anybody's pants. Her recipe for a hairwash was simple - a sticky, greenish brown and completely vegan sludge.

It can also spook the dickens out of a sloth bear. Twice weekly, I was subjected to a head bath where stinking, green goo irrigated my forehead. Somehow, my hair follicles loved it. They gorged on the green goo and reproduced like the Whores of Babylon. Soon enough, my head was covered with a dense, outgrowth of dark hair. I was happy, my Patti was happy and my friends were green.

And as all good things go, so did my hair. It began the day that my patti found out that she can control me no more. My hormones overran everything on its way including sincere advice and sly referrals to my Dad's pate. All fell on dead hairs. Going on a shampoo spree, I experimented wildly before zeroing in on Pantene since it was the most fragrant smelling and was proven to dispel, nay, eliminate dandruff.

~~Jeyamalini~~ Shilpa Jetty might have played a minor role in the decision but that is irrelevant to the discussion. My Patti wept in angst as I went full monty and danced wildly in the living room, flinging froth all over the furniture like a gorilla flinging crap. Washing hair was no more a ritual; it was riotous pleasure.

By the time my Patti pointed out the obvious, quite condescendingly, most of my hair had dislodged themselves. I did not believe my Patti, simply because I could not see what she was saying. Only when my friends started pointing and jeering, did I know something was wrong. The very next day I went to an eye doctor.

That I chose to believe I went myopic before I went bald, did me no good. I was still losing hair by the millions. Additionally, I also discovered that my follicles had hit a rough patch and stopped reproducing altogether. It was like China had suddenly discovered birth control. I had to do some damage control immediately. I turned to the only other person whom I knew would empathize. My dad.

He did not. He first proceeded to laugh at my insecurity, delivered a long sermon and finally put forth a juvenile recommendation which was further endorsed by many women of my time. ("juvenile" is not a pun; Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo was, is and always will be juvenile). Them women ooh-ed and aah-ed over the fact that I had started using baby shampoo. Probably, if I had tried I could have scored a few.

But I was more bothered about my hirsute than her suite. Sadly, the approach was effectively ineffective. Its impotence could be matched only by the presence of Badrinath in the CSK team. The amount of shampoo that I used was neither directly or indirectly proportional to anything that even remotely resembled a strand of hair.

I finally came full circle. I mean, my head resembled a full circle. There was nothing there that would encourage a barber to charge me more. There was only one other option that remained. I swallowed my pride and went and bought Meera Herbal Shampoo. It still smelled horrible and was more or less green goo. But at least, I did not go the way of Cho Ramaswamy.

My patti was ecstatic.

The Charge of the Light & Sound Brigade

2010-03-02T16:05:00.017+05:30

My TV is a humongous idiot. Having stated the obvious, I will now sip my burnt coffee as I recount the epic (possibly #fail) story of a hero: a hero who in the face of adversity and trouble still managed to advocate ribald dumbness.

In the beginning there was light. Accompanied with sound. Quite a lot of both in fact. When my TV pirouetted with my remote, the whole apartment shook with the screams of football fans, skimpy heroines singing in foreign beaches about Jalsa and of course curve-less models parading to techno. I could make the TV jump through channelized hoops by the mere movement of a finger; it was an epistemological zenith. That sensation of playing God remains, until now, unparalleled, the closest one being the toilet flush knob. Everything was perfect, as my stingy neighbors suffered from occasional cardiac arrests, until the day the love story between my TV and remote ended in a Samsung-ian tragedy. It was, in the risk of repeating myself for no reason, really tragic.

My remote stopped working. The situation hit me harder than I thought. It eventually led me to start watching Desperate Housewives on my laptop. My pseudo-shy friend found me three days later, wallowing in pink pillows and rotting apples. He failed to understand why I had that sitcom stored in my laptop in the first place. I explained to him that it was a mistake that arose out of a misnomer which currently I do not wish to elaborate (this is a family-known blog and they communicate in the Queen's English). He understood and promptly tweeted the news to almost all my friends who were alive. In 1 hour there were 24 new messages, most of which were concerned about my well-being with a small number of them, making fun of me. I tend to lie. All of them made fun of me.

Driven to absolute humiliation, I consulted a number of experts in the field of Remote Sensing before finding that they were as related to the situation, as Angelina Jolie and her adopted kids. Finally, I turned to my pseudo-dramatic friend who gave me a brilliant idea, an idea so brilliant that it made Google Buzz look like, well, Google Buzz.

He told me to buy either a couch or a bean bag. Now, giving me options is neither a brilliant nor a dramatic idea. You can't ask your son whether he wants to marry Padmanabhan or Balakrishnan and expect him to say 'Krithika' do you? Ok, bad metaphor. That was brilliant and dramatic. Must make a mental note to kick pseudo-dramatic friend for polluting my nuclei with Balaji Telefilms' taradiddles. Meanwhile, the conscious part of me uprooted all my hair out and almost touched the barriers of a drugged Britney-dom. Bald and TV-strung, I went back to my intelligent, pseudo-philosophic friend for advice. He started on a discourse on the anodes and cathodes of owning neither, that lasted three hours, during which 34,781 babies were born in India, some romantic trash called "Will you jump over the Sky?" got released and the Union Budget increased excise duty on unsold TV sets. At the end of it, I thought I was better off watching ~~Trisha~~ insipid women jumping in the sky. Or over it. Or around it. Whatever.

Having exhausted myself of any more grey-cell usage, I went in for the same decision that current Reliance cell-phone users took five years ago - go for the cheaper option. I bought a bean bag and immersed myself in Positional Dynamics of Particle Re-alignment For Effective Relative Positioning of Bean Bag to Idiot Box. I really spent time on it. It is not like deciding on a design where you save the world by wearing your underwear inside or outside or inside out. This was much more important for the simple reason that my TV was stuck at Udaya news and I don't speak jalebi. Especially with the Fourth Estate.

The selected version looked complicated enough to make me proud of my rotting Engineering Degree and no charges for guessing which one. I wasted a whole day in implementing it. Once it was all set, I armed myself with a King-size dosage of fluid donated by fishermen and sat down to watch "Metti Oli". My remote remained impotent.

I was beside myself with anger, and (as all people do when they are breaking up or when they are told that they have Herpes) I threw the remote. It bounced off the wall and lay on its backside, like an electrocuted frog. I stared at the pieces lying on the floor in a jigsaw puzzle and then it clicked.

Fifteen minutes later and 24 rupees poorer, I happily watched the season finale of Desperate Housewives on Star World.

There was an empty Duracell wrapper next to my bean bag.

A Dingbat in Love

2010-02-14T21:22:00.007+05:30

Dhrit's auricles and ventricles were playing beach volleyball when they were suddenly hauled rudely by the whirring of the phone signaling a new message. Swearing, they let themselves be tossed hither and thither, as Dhrit visually recorded the contents. It was a simple two-word message. He was not a man who was normally bound to make mountains out of simple messages. He believed in cold logic and rationale.

He also believed in hope which is a completely irrelevant fact. But the current case was different; all the letters were in uppercase. They either signified importance or ignorance. After subjecting his brain to some extreme Nokia torture, he settled on importance. Logically, he wanted to reciprocate. Violating the punch dialogue copyright of most Tamil heroes he decided to give more than actually take. There were only three words that could effectively communicate what he felt at that instant and he decided to do it in person. All this happened in exactly fifteen seconds after he saw the message.

It said, "GOOD NIGHT".

Ignoring desperate pleas from his instinct, he blundered across the room pocketing the phone. He slipped into a pair of jeans along with a clean T-shirt, emptied half the contents of a half-empty deodorant can on himself, grabbed the bike keys and flew outside the door, love-light glowing in his eyes. Let me tell you, Hell is no fierier than a man in love.

Minutes later, he was on the road, polluting the Chennai night air with free deodorant samples. He played the words again and again in his mind with her saying it in her high-pitched shriek that seemed to make nails scratching on the blackboard, music. Queerly though, each time she did, she held a bowl of 'mayo' that she offered to him on a glass plate.

After fighting with a policeman who initially refused to believe that the 18-year old headshot of the wanted convict on the driver's license was himself, Dhrit finally reached the Watershed Apartments. Addled on by gallons of adrenalin that pumped through his rather shapely muscles, he parked the bike amongst the bushes (actually flung the poor vehicle). He reached the base of the apartment and pressed the button for the elevator. While waiting, he adjusted his bangs so as to cover his ample forehead of a football field, hitched up his trousers and checked for sprinkles of dandruff; he found nothing. But he had to look good to feel confident; and vice versa. All was set but something nagged at the base of his hair follicles and did not see it. He blamed it on the testosterone-induced butterflies in his belly and punched the button for the topmost floor.

Bored inside the lift, he started reading the lift specifications. He wondered tangentially, 'If specifications are referred as specs, can't gratification be called grass?' The lift pinged at the 10th floor and he walked out of the elevator and up to the door that said 106, leaving the cognitively-high debate unanswered.

Dhrit Ramakrishnan knocked on the door of Geetha Kannan, belligerently.

He knew that she lived alone with her roommate. After what seemed like the time taken for a grounded Air India flight to take off, she opened the door. Dhrit blinked taking in the splendid visage that threatened to choke him with emotion and spit. It held him spellbound; pink nightie, sleepy eyes, fluffy slippers and hair tied a tight bun to boot. A voice that mixed equal amounts of a trombone and heavy earth moving machinery said, "Who is it? What do you want?"

Our hero mustered all the wants of puberty, all the pangs of a first-time-lover, all the retarded butterflies that now flew drunkenly - bottled them in three simple words and uttered them in some ancient Mayan dialect.

"You, aaa.. Eh..."

She got exasperated. Her concept of an ideal man did not contain anybody who comes knocking at 1 'o' clock in the morning and speaks ancient Mayan dialects. "What is it that you want?", she asked again.

He finally managed to get them right. But seconds after he said those words, five phalanges materialized out of nowhere and landed smoothly on his right cheek, leaving a burning red mark in its wake as our hero let loose an expletive that can come out only after a brilliant slap. The slap made his eyes see Mohabbatein in reverse and trust me; it is not exactly a pleasant sight either way. The door exactly behind him opened; the right one that said 109. He turned 180⁰ to see his actual love fuming at the actual door, looking as angry as a Facebook user who just discovered that Facebook has changed its layout once again. Our hero believed in cold logic and rationale. As 109 shut itself before he could cough up an apology, he knew that Geetha was over.

Important Fact: You can convince the woman you think you love of anything; even that you can kick the crap out of ~~Flying~~ Action King Arjun, but never of uttering the three stupid words. To somebody else.

Equally Important Fact: No man, starting from the Stonehenge construction workers, till date, has understood that statement. It simply does not make sense. Like Action King Arjun ~~flying~~ kicking all the time, instead of acting.

Anyway, coming back: our hero found everything falling in place: the sign-board, the license photo, the bass voice, the mayo on a glass plate and the blurred traffic signal.

He had forgotten his spectacles.

He turned back to peer into the imposing figure of a middle-aged woman whom he had never seen before in his life. As disgrace and humiliation engulfed our hero, who continued now in some vocal version of hieroglyphics, he heard the tinkling of bells. The bells were in beautiful Tamil and were seductively drowsy.

"Who is it, Amma? What is all the noise? Is it the police? Did we get caught for watching My Name Is Khan, today?"

The body attached to the voice came cantering up to the front door; pink nightie - check, drowsy eyes - check, fluffy slippers - check, paranoid - check, and hair let loose - uncheck. That could be adjusted as bad hair debt.

Our hero smiled. He still believed in hope. He also started believing in potential.

PS: This story borrows heavily from this pathetic Hero Honda ad.
PPS: This story was written for http://www.thebanyantrees.com by me and is edited largely.

The Ultimate Washing Method (Regd.)

2010-01-19T06:34:00.011+05:30

It was the last leg of the Mumbai marathon and there was just half a kilometer left. I was putting in whatever I had, which might be illegally termed as reserve energy since it was mostly fueled by a weekend dosage of cheap whiskey. Every step that I took left a puddle of sweat in its wake, quickly attracting hordes of flies who probably thought it was an aphrodisiac and went about increasing the entomological population of Mumbai calmly. As if they needed a reason to. Anyway, 15 minutes later twenty people saw me raise both my hands in victory and cheered. The others had obviously left. Two of them came running to me holding pepsi cans which turned out to be deodorant sprays. Anyway, overwhelmed by my elation, I removed my dark brown T-shirt in preparation for the ritualistic victory dance. Dark brown? I had started off with a white shirt. My senses stopped playing musical chairs at my behest and the T-shirt still remained brown. Realization dawned upon me like the due diligence reports of Sriram Chit Funds' balance sheet along with a rather clamorous bell chiming loudly.

I roused myself from the nightmare with the pillow sticking to my face and the doorbell conducting a gong thani aavarthanam. The peephole revealed a stooping dark figure who bore faint resemblance to Luke Skywalker seconds after he was told about his exact relationship with Princess Leia. Gingerly I opened the door to my dhobi. He dumped a bunch of dirty washed clothes on me, snorted, thrust a shrinkled finger into my solar plexus and made me swear never to call him again in his, his missus' or my life and bolted. All before you can say, "Deferred Tax".

That's how started, my search for the Ultimate Washing Method.

The ultimate washing method is an overrated sequence of events whose single main objective is three-fold

a) Clean, fresh, lavender smelling clothes
b) Minimal usage of user-generated calories and
c) I forgot the third one; something to do with Bengalis

EXPERIMENT #1:
My search took me to unexplored terrains of supermarkets, hypermarkets, capital markets, hot neighbor's kitchen, hot neighbour's hot daughter's study, drab maids, marathi training courses and public washrooms. But everything has a starting point: like equity capital. Not quite a fan of do-it-yourself, except when it comes to pulling wire over the cable TV operator's eyes, I decided to take the moral high ground. Armed with 1/2 a kilo of 1 kilo Tide detergent (courtesy:hot neighbour), a bucket (courtesy: hot neighbour's daughter) and a smarting rear (courtesy: hot neighbour's husband), I proceeded to follow the instructions given behind the packet.

EXPERIMENT #2
#1 was destined to be a bust. To start with, I ended up washing myself up more than my clothes. Secondly, there was the Inverse Law of Soaking: The more you soak, the more it stinks and the less you soak, the dirt stays. After a lengthy discussion that I had with my mother, involving several, rather all possible allegories to the lackadaisical routine with which I was conducting myself, there resulted a few significant changes. Experiment #2 was supposed to be fail-proof, IMHOTBS certified and maa-approved.

EXPERIMENT #3
However, #2 had a major fault; entirely unrelated to the Adyar flyover and the Bandra-Worli sealink. Too much muscle movement. At that rate I would burgeon a hunchback and haunt the streets of Anna Nagar singing, "Sudsway to Heaven", "November Dirt" and "Hey, Nee Romba Azhukka Irukka". Exercising my final option, I bought a highly advanced (periodically not technologically) washing machine. Most of the buttons were Greek with occasional Latin and Tulu thrown in. I rose to the challenge and studied the wrong manual for three days. In fact, I knew every line in the wrong manual so well that I could have sold the machine to a naked aborigine without blinking. Many days later, after the discovery of my error and earfuls to customer care reps at Videocon I obtained the right manual and continued experiment #3.
To sum up the results of experiment #3: The Google-Wave effect. Too many choices spoiled the froth.

I was nearly at the end of my clothes-line. I lay on my couch, silently ruing the fate of the UWM, thwarted by my own dirt as SunTV replayed the trailer of Sherlock Holmes (Tamil). I could see my future dimming from zany, Louis Phillipe shirts to a brownish, blackish mass of sober, dark shirts that made me look like a walking coffin.

Holmes..???!!! How could I have been so blind? The discovery was so brilliant it made Archimedes look like a streaking freak.

It was elementary dear reader. No, seriously elementary. You see it was all in that Tide detergent packet. The only problem was, it did not contain detergent.

It contained our dear, old sodium chloride. (courtesy: stupid, hot neighbour)

Mixing Peanuts and Cricket

2009-12-28T22:51:00.016+05:30

Gulping down the insipid coffee to inoculate me against a Saturday hangover, I ran pell-mell down the apartment stairs out into dawn and jogged to the road. I tried flagging down the first auto; he refused point blank. I waited in my adidas sneakers for ten more minutes before Autorickshaw #2 acquiesced and off I was to play cricket after a really long gap of seven months.

As the rickshaw sped across the non-existent hustle and bustle of a sleepy Sunday morning on the Lokhandwala roads, early morning joggers, sleepy tea stalls and paid toilet booths flashed by. The significance did not strike me. I leaned out of the auto to get a glimpse of the glorious sun, rising across a clear blue expanse and some retarded bird shat on my clean-washed T shirt. Denigrating the process of digestion and in turn the lineage of retarded birds, I moved to a more central position inside the auto. The auto-man took double the time, triple the distance and four times the fare. Cursing, I jogged my way through tall apartment buildings that concealed a well-laid ground. And by well-laid, I mean it in all the senses possible.

But currently, it was as deserted as the premiere show for Vettaikaran. There was just one plumber/watchman who started toe-carving kolams on the earth on seeing me. Disgusted, I fished out my phone and called the organizer.

"Dude..!!". I said.
"Thood", he mumbled.
"WTF are you??" I screamed like a scorned PMS-struck teenager.
"Eh?", he said.

I realized it was futile and called the next in command. His wife answered the phone promptly. I told her that the situation was one of national importance. She understood quickly; a bit too quickly. The reasons were unclear; was it because I usually charm the pants off any middle aged woman I talk to or because she wants her spouse to get some dosage of good exercise? With no intention of stealing Tiger Woods' thunder I settled on the latter. Ten minutes more and the ground was littered with paunchy, grumpy men cursing wives, kids, marriages and for some reason, Aamir Khan.

But cricket is that sort of the game where you end up liking the game irrespective of all that aforementioned balderdash. I saw a marked increase in the players' confidence levels as they pranced and danced across the ground, literally violating what was left of her. The transition seemed so wonderful that I started believing in the true spirit of cricket. Cricket runs in our blood, cricket is everything; it can cure breakups, beat the hell out of a Chuck Norris flick on the television and create bonds so strong that chemists in Kazakhstan are still conspiring to develop a bio-weapon out of it to unleash it on Antarctica. I squinted at the sun and suddenly realized all my beliefs was just bovine excreta.

The main reason was that the apartments around had come to life with mushroomed spectators. Most of them were bored housewives whose husbands were still snoring the ceiling plaster down. Anyway, half an hour into the game the first innings was nearing its end. My stomach rumbled as I took my menacing approach of a bull on steroids to bowl the last over. I graciously gifted 17 runs in one single over. My ancestors turned in their graves as the humiliation lost me my so-sought after mojo. I could feel the audience sniggering at my plight. It had to be redeemed. I beat my belly and swore to get even. As I was walking back to the pavilion, frustrated, a vision holding a plate of peanuts and a goblet of lime juice rose. It was a benevolent-looking Maami, resplendent in a brown madisar who had come down from the apartments. I thanklessly gorged on the peanuts without thinking twice or even thrice.

Our innings began disastrously, chasing 83 runs in eight overs with 6 batsmen. Our openers got out so quickly that it looked like a trekking expedition to the pitch. After that, a decent flow of runs poured due to some exquisite stroke-play from our penultimate batsmen. There was a brief scuffle sometime during the game, when the hormonal drool content in the ground attained an all-time high; the only difference being, I have never seen punches being hindered by paunches (excluding Sam Anderson). Anyway, just when we looked like we were going to make it easily, there was a rather an unfortunate mix-up effecting a run out. Methinks, the batsmen were just running to get closer to the Maami who sat benignly, pacifying the returned batsmen who were only too pleased to be worried over. The score stood at 70 runs in seven overs. 12 was required off the last over as I went in to take strike.

My team of MBPs hoisted me and delivered swift kicks to my butt in celebration. Little did they know what they were soiling their hands with. I wrenched free from all of it, the team, the now-Chimp-scored audience and the lovely Maami (who winked while she was consoling the captain of the MHPs) and flew to the apartment gates. And then the pieces fell into place. That scheming Maami! But in her defense, it was all for the greater good(s). And yeah, she was also very pretty.

However, invariably, as luck would have it, autos after autos turned me down. I started running in the general direction of my house hoping to get a lift. And lo and behold! My apartment tower was right behind the ground! The grinning chipmunk of an auto-man, coiled in a hammock in Goa, recounting his exploits in the Mumbai underworld outsmarting rich, stupid kids with his ultra-sub machine autometer and impeccable driving skills as the bunch of loosely-clad auto-women oohed and aahed in pseudo-orgasmic pleasure; loomed in my face. My stomach burned, literally and figuratively.

I was steps away from the door when the Bhakra Nangal dam broke.

Pazhani Malai Steps

2009-12-01T23:00:00.011+05:30

My Dad looked at me disgustedly. Random commuters looked at me disgustedly. I looked at myself, acting disgustedly. There was a noted level of apprehension that hung in the air like a squeezed fart. I was sure it was not going to happen. But my Dad is a hardcore fan of self-help books like, "You Can Win"; "I Can You Can", "Pepsi Recyclable Can" and the like.

It all started when my parents landed in Mumbai to pay me a surprise visit. I was not not totally prepared for it. There were enough empty beer and vodka bottles lying around in my house to buy a year's supply of whisky. I had just two hours notice to fumigate my house and keep it spic and span; whose meaning I have never heard of or never intended to use in the same sentence as my house/abode/den/tree. However my parents were least bothered about the state of the house. It was something else that bothered them that found us in this present situation.

The picture: Imagine a 25 tonne MCGM garbage lorry travelling at 70 kmph on the Western Express Highway. There is a small bicyclist coming in the opposite direction. There is also a small tea-shop somewhere in between the two. Now, continue imagining what happens next while I quickly explain my embarrassing situation before you have time to understand what the bloody dickens I am talking about.

My belly had grown so big that I cannot bend down and tie my shoelaces without breathing like a beaten walrus. True story. My parents, when they first saw me after almost six months, came close to throwing a public fit. For two whole days I listened to the incessant drivel on Improper Eating Habits, Not Eating Nutritious Food, Sleeping at Weird Hours etc. Beyond a point, I was so frustrated that I started watching reruns of Splitsvilla, which I would probably do only if there was a fully-grown moustache suspended somewhere around my head attached to a man wielding a hacksaw. But my parents paid little or no attention to the psychological post-teenage depression that leads to inadvertent increase in muscular fat, concentrated mostly near the intestinal region that might be partially due to enormous intake of fermented barley water ominously named after a Royal Carnivorous Avian species (quite stupidly) and partially to lack of consistent muscle displacement.

Thus started Operation Slim Down. My Dad is not necessarily a fitness freak. But he strictly believes in screwing me up. Somehow, he managed to hoodwink me into going to a mall where he suddenly started fussing about wanting a tote bag and completely changed once we entered an Adidas store. My Mom came out with the big guns and walloped a load of worry that made me feel so bad, that I allowed them pamper to me into buying a good looking pair of Adidas sneakers. They looked quite cool when I wore them. My parents were happy, I was happy, the dealer was happy and all's well that still has a lot more to go before it does not end very well.

Two days later, I came home really tired. My parents wanted to go someplace where I could relax. I could of think of only one place that I could relax but that would mean me getting signed out of my Dad's will. And they wanted me to wear my new sneakers. I was a fool of the highest order as I gave in.

Half an hour later, after winding in and out of Lokhandwala market's by-streets we finally landed near a board that said, "Fame Fitnass Center". I almost took to my heels if not for the fact that my Dad weighed a couple of hundred pounds more than me and he was taller than me by at least a foot. Mutely swearing at genetic randomness, I was iron-gripped to the reception and was made to sign up. That was that, for the time being.

And so started the regime. But there is a twist to the tale. What began as a "Amma, I have a flea in my eye. I dont think I will be able to see the question paper. Can I bunk the Half-Yearly exams altogether?" affair slowly evolved into a, "Amma, where's my multi-purpose pen pencil? If I have to score the first rank in the Half Yearly exams, I will have to underline the botanical names of animal genetalia." The second I come back from office, I used to set off for the gym slinging a bag and wearing my brand new sneakers. Credibly enough, I also used to come back drenched in sweat and perspiration. But, contrary to the old bloke, Darwin's theory, the process was quick and not long drawn out. It eventually led to the sowing of the seeds of doubt. In due course, the seeds sprouted and flowered to become a full-blown mega-whopper of a Tree of Incertitude.

Exactly two days before my parents scooted out of Bal Thackeray's province, my Dad decided to investigate. Donning a Rs:50 worth deerstalkers cap that was haggled off from Saravana stores, he shadowed me, right up to the gym. What he saw there rendered him so speechless for days, that he could have acted in Raja Harischandra without batting an eyelid.

I had to take the help of my Mom to paraphrase his feelings exactly:

Once my son reached the gym, he went into the changing room and changed into his sneakers. He then came out and waited for some time. After ten or so minutes, a pretty number walked up to him and they went together to the treadmill. My son just stood there yapping a dime a dozen, as the pretty number started jogging. This went on for almost an hour. After which, my dear son went back to the changing room, removed his sneakers and walked out of the gym. Once out of the gym, he took out his bottle and proceeded to empty its contents over himself, shaking his meager scalp like Julie Andress. And then he saw me......

I lasted four more days. My sneakers are collecting dust now, as a full-time profession.

Ut tensio, sic vis*

2009-11-12T20:56:00.004+05:30

I was in a very bad mood. It was not because a crow had somehow got into my house and proceeded to seduce me my bringing garbage from all over the country and redecorating my kitchen. It was also not because I threw a newspaper at it, that totally missed it and fell out the window over an old couple who were making out in the verandah below and made the old man let loose a few expletives. The factual reasons were totally simple and somehow totally irrelevant to whatever happened that day.

The 3-point roster of my FMLs for that day;

1. I slipped in the bathroom and almost lost my virginity. Forever.
2. I discovered only that day that my door had a self-locking mechanism. With my keys inside.
3. It was Monday morning.

Making a mental note to de-select two of them to twitter about, I set off for office. The Mumbai-local ride was anything but abnormal. Re-discovering my ancestor's genes by swinging from one pole to another, each time inhaling a new, fresh dose of masculine sweat hardly improves one's emotional disposition. I got off the train, with my trousers dangling somewhere around the second half of my rear football field and quickly built up a stride in the direction of my office building.

The huge glass doors came into view and I ejaculated a teenage-girl-watching-Grudge 2.0-shriek. It was my reflection. Sweating ravines, tousled black-green-yellow hair with a groundnut sticking out of nowhere, askew glasses and a drunken look: I painted a rather pretty picture of Ranbir Kapoor. I quickly hurried to the elevator and started thumping the close button before anything tragic happened. There was just one other, middle-aged female in the elevator who gave a dont-even-think-about-it look that teleported my spine to the Tundra. I retorted with a please-buy-a-mirror look. When she found that she was losing the war of misshapen looks, she took it to the next level and slowly, silently started mouthing words at me. But I was not going to fall for the same trap again. I could faintly see the flint of her jazzy mobile phone, dangling from one of her ears, hidden behind troll-like locks of hair.

The doors closed and a god-awful bhajan started playing as we rose. 1, 2, 3, 4. Finally, the eskimo got off. And who should come peeping in the next second? A six-pack. Literally, a six-pack. Six giggling, half-gorgeous girls. My guess was the HR department but Finance came a close second. Anyway, given my organisation, seeing any female lesser than 35 years of age is nothing short of a water-turning-wine episode. Drunk with my good fortune, I decided to make good hay out of the chance. Hip-hopping in the best 50 cent caricature possible to the corner where that middle-aged hag had been hobbling, I struck my Clint-Eastwoodish pose; winking a 240W smile at them girls. Surprisingly, all of them smiled back. "NAILED IT!!!", I yelled silently to myself, blasting my tympanum. My deranged libido finally managed to kickstart the sputtering scooter and grinned at me. I was on a metaphoric high.

And then my floor came. I had to let go of my copyrighted pose. Noetically saluting, "Respect, Mr. Harry Callaghan", I walked out of the lift. What happened within two seconds after that just screwed me. It took my dignity, squashed it with a sledgehammer, ran it through a Bengali's paan-chewing mouth and threw it out of the sixth floor window.

elastic: /ilastik/
adjective: able to resume normal shape spontaneously after being stretched or squeezed.
noun: cord, tape, or fabric which returns to its original length or shape after being stretched.

Derivatives: elastically adverb elasticity /illastissiti/ noun elasticize (also elasticise) verb.

Origin: Greek elastikos ‘propulsive’.

As I walked out; to be more specific, as I moved out of that corner, there was a long pink thread-like thing that clung on to my shirt. It followed me until I walked out of the elevator, giving a short crash course in elasticity. The elevator(now more read than a Anna University ECE graduate) played along and slowly went up, dragging it until it got cut off and I was left with a long trail of sick-looking, masticated bubble gum. I stood there, horrified, staring at the off-pink line that ran from the lift. I could almost hear the guffaws get louder along with clouds of gossip, as the lift ascended. My dreams of giving birth to twins, buying a Honda Civic, taking them to an Anglo Indian school in Ooty and pinching the cheeks of smart looking grandson-chimps; all looked distended and mangled like that wad of bubble gum.

Wad of bubblegum. Thats when it struck me and I yelled like a sleep-deprived, wounded pig. That middle-aged fiend..!!

*Click here for more info

Benetton Inc.

2008-03-22T22:24:00.003+05:30

       It was a white T-Shirt. Pure and virginistic. I simply looked marvelous in it. Without it, even better. But let us not get into the genesis or the implications of the underwritten eleventh wonder of the world. I walked around with an air of handsome-ness and hot-ity. I felt the T-shirt bring out something that only my girlfriend and a few Miss World rejects manage to twitch. In plain Greek, I was in love with my T-shirt.

       Imagine a paling sunset, with the beach shining; golden soft. A couple. Lost in love and in each other's eyes, as they try to look for an answer to the questions that God had somehow forgotten in his huge plan of perpetuating species. Hands held, thoughts locked and lips inviting. The two are oblivious to everything. To even a fully grown grizzly bear, stinking of dead rats and Musharraf's breath, that enters the scene somehow, with a blood- curdling howl that would send microscules of crap running to your bowels. The hairy bear, sprints into the scene, lifts the female and plants a loud, wet, loving kiss on her cheek. Imagine her confusion; her feelings and that of the helpless male as he watches his beloved, handled like an old transistor.

       That was how I felt. As I was pacing my steps towards the mess, in a complex Venusian dance move, hands grew out of nowhere and tugged at my shirt. Dirty, rainbow-colored hands. It was all over in a few seconds. My T-shirt went down in tatters. My soul was damaged beyond any repair and it started blowing a requiem. And that was not all. The same hands bore me up and I started floating in air as the foliage above me, shifted rapidly. Suddenly, sunlight broke out and punctured my eyes. I shielded them and gravity hit me with a sledgehammer. I plummeted six feet. Down. Down.

       Into a tub of colored water. The water was grimy and tasted of chola puri. I rose from the depths, waters cascading down rippling muscles and an angry expression, looking like Clint Eastwood with bad skin problems, as my ears shuddered in pain caused by a shout that even bats will not have a problem hearing..

"HOLI HAI, CHIMPY BOY!"

       From there onwards, it was a Shakespearean tragedy. I was mauled and beaten alive, as I battled my way through the levels. Yes, there were levels. The Tub was Level 1. Level 2 was me being thrown in the air and ejaculating oohs and aahs from the feminine crowd as my pink underwear, made even pinker by the colors, was made public. I was being literally, visibly stripped. And then came Level 3.

       Somehow, everybody got to know that I was not that heavy, in spite of my rather menacing and calm demeanour. Both boys and girls bore me up. By this time, I had swallowed enough water to irrigate the Sahara and all my breath had taken a vacation. I was too tired to struggle. Level 3 hit me full on the face and body parts. It was brown and smelt of damp earth.

       It WAS damp earth. It was a bloody mud pit. I was rolled and rolled on it like a chappati. Suddenly, it was all over and the thudding stopped. There was a new victim. I stood up. Damp, dirty, stinking and my pants in threads. I looked around and saw the new victim being ambushed. I waited to find out the people responsible. They were three of them who were doing this. Instantly, I wanted vengeance. It boiled my blood. The three guys were carrying the poor guy to The Tub. I swiftly scanned the surroundings with my ultra sensory perceptive sight and it came to rest on my poor T- shirt. Seeing the T-Shirt, gave me more strength and an idea. I picked it up and wetted it thoroughly. Then walked purposefully, to the three perpetrators of crime, who were now harassing the poor fellow, drowning him in that insipid water.

       I stood a meter behind and pulled back my T-shirt taut. It was aimed splendidly at the first fellow's backside. I let go. The T-Shirt flew and perfectly flicked his behind. A howl split the air and filled my ears with music. Suddenly, I wished I hadn't done it. The fellow turned, surrounded by the other three. And more behind the three. I gave up.

The process was repeated. Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3.

Again. And again. And again.

Five times. They made sure that Hamam will owe 13% of its business to me.

But, as the proverb goes: When you are getting raped, you might as well enjoy it. And I did. To the fullest extent.

The Day I Tried To....

2008-02-27T18:45:00.002+05:30

       It was around eleven thirty when I got off my computer and walked up to the balcony to get a whiff of cool, fresh air; it was hot and stank of used socks. I swore. My spine was hurting like a millipede had gone trekking on it with spiked boots. I stretched, chasing the knots out of my muscles and leaned over the rails to get a look. It felt nice - the non-existent breeze floating across my face.
       Suddenly, the moon came out and I could make out a couple walking across the lawns, holding hands. Something gave me the opinion that I knew them from somewhere. I racked my brains, fiddling around the intellectual crap with a pitchfork. My sub-conscious told me I had known them all my life. They were too familiar.
       I ran inside the room, took hold of my broken specs that was entangled in a towel and put them on hurriedly. I rushed back outside, with the towel hanging to the frame of my spectacles, looking like a Turkish bride, and focused my vision on the part of the lawn that these two people were traversing swiftly.
       Yeah, yeah. Of course, they were my parents. I had to give some buildup. I owe it to them. Fact is, they had come over to Ahmedabad; my Dad had a conference. From the minute they landed, they were not too impressed by mine effects. I had tried my level best though. They remained stubborn and refused to treat me as a grownup individual, who can take care of a paunch. That was one thing I had never been able to explain away. My Dad pointedly asked,

"Oye, Sirpy. That's a paunch man...!"
"Yeah, I think it is..."
"You boozing...?"... Doubt creeping in.
"Appa...! This is a dry state, remember...??". This is me being defensive throwing in some simple strategy.
"Hmmmm....".
       My Dad was not completely convinced, as he gave me a cynical glare and pushed off to complain to my Mom, who was busy inspecting my wardrobe and was throwing out all my stuff, trying to find some evidence to incriminate me. But she always neatly folded them back in just to placate me, saying that she was just trying to clean up the room. I never complain. My room always looked like goblins had a fancy dress party and had belched clothes all over.
       Anyway, I stood staring, as the lovers-past-prime made their way across the sub-pass towards the cricket ground. My brain worked involuntarily and I mentally followed the most probable course that they would take in their walk. And then a plan diabolique struck me.
       I ran inside, called up DFock and ordered, rationalized, begged, pleaded and finally bartered my pink underwear to brainwash him to come to the basketball court. Fifteen minutes later, I huffed and puffed my way to the court. DFock was thumping the ball away, here and there, throwing expert hoops. Fear grasped my intestine and made a pretzel. But I knew I had to do it to save my image. I entered the arena and waited.
       As per my calculations, my parents had to come around the corner in exactly twenty five minutes. They showed up an hour later. By then, DFock was royally pissed, as he did not see any of his incentives materializing.
       Never mind him.
       The second my parents came into the picture, I ran yelling war whoops, into the court. I could actually hear my parents talk,

Dad: "Is that our son...?"
Mom: "Eh...? He's too tall and too fair to be lazy."
Dad: "No. No. That is the sweeper. I meant one of the guys in the basketball court..."
Mom: "Hmmm... Wait. Something's wrong. He does look like our offspring, but basketball...????!!"
Dad: "Exactly. Let's go check him out."
Mom: "Oui."

       And then it was disaster. Three simple things. Three simple things that I had forgotten.
1) My spectacles were still hanging to my towel back in the room.
2) I can never ring the doorbell of every house.
3) I still had the paunch.

       Both my parents had the laugh of their lives, as I pirouetted, waltzed and gracefully curved my way around the ball in a zillion ways, never touching it. I was in deep disgrace.

       Later, my Mom patted my back for the effort and said she was proud of me. A pat. For all that toil in planning and executing. A pat.
       Sheesh.

Wired and weird

2007-12-02T07:17:00.000+05:30

      And finally I have been tagged. It is an honor and I consider it my esteemed blah.. blah.. blah... My emotions surmount vehicles of blah.. blah.. and more blahs... I thank Ziah from the bottom of my blah.. blah.. blah.. Having done all that let me get the facts right. The tag, essentially forced me to list out five, nothing more nothing less, weird stuff about myself, however grouse they are, whatever species of living organism it may concern etc.. etc..
      So I took a paper and pen and sat down to list out five weird facts about myself. I sat and thought and thought. I thought so much that I made Plato and Socrates look like mentally retarded dolts. But nothing fell out of that voluminous, mass of cerebral condominium. I knew I was perfect, but this was taking it too far. I pressed, prodded, poked; did everything within my power. Other than the fact that I managed to dislodge quite a number of hair follicles and increased the surface area of my face, nothing happened. My nerve broke.
      And then I remembered my Mom.
     I was a genius. If there was any person, other than my girlfriend who would know more about the enigma that I am than me, it would be my Mother. I decided to call her up. But before calling, I suddenly went into flashback mode. Accompanied by dull, throbbing music my face faded to reveal a 18 year old Chimp, sitting cross-legged in front of the idiot box in rapt attention while the better half of the manufacturer of this unique product sat by his side, feeding him sambhar rice and lentil curry. He mechanically opened his mouth and shut it at regular intervals, unaware of what went into that gaping, bottomless pit. The reason was obvious.

1. I love Ayesha Takia

      Before getting into the mechanics of why I love Ayesha Takia, let me state a few ground rules that are essential to prove the authenticity of my statements.
a) Ayesha Takia is hot.
b) Ayesha Takia is hot
c) Ayesha Takia is hot.
      Now the mechanics. Well, in effect there aren't any. Most of them are obviously obvious. I involuntarily used to wallow in my own drool the second I saw her on TV. My heart would break long jump records, my nerves- speed records and my hands - my grandfather's old records. The way she moves her hip, the way she smiles, her perfect set of white teeth, her smooth hip, her slender, pudgy fingers, the way she sucks at a Popsicle. I fell hook, line and sinker. I used to fantasize me and her, eating masala dosai and thengai chutney at Saravana Bhavan. My mom stuffed my mouth, as I drooled.

2. I love JETIX

      I was forced to change the channel. I did not want my Mom getting suspicious about my clandestine love life. I liked playing spy. Anyway, I switched to my next favourite one.

JETIX!!!! JETIX!!!! JETIX!!!!

      The second and the third ones are echoes, added for effect. The reason why I loved this usually, ridiculed channel was because, all the series that they telecast were dubbed in Tamil. The dubbing was too hilarious and the storyline even more ridiculous than the translation. I used to laugh both my rear cheeks off. My mom thought otherwise and took me to a psychiatrist. She was in for a shock. The psychiatrist loved Jetix. There you go. Now that you have professional reassurance; I bideth thee, the multitudes, to go watcheth Jetix and spreadeth the word to all the four corners of the Earth aplenty. And let be there be power rangers, forever..!

3. Old women tickle my libido

      Yup. I will stop here. I am not elaborating any further. I don't want my Mom blundering her way here and finding out the reason why her son went out with his 69-year old neighbor for frequent walks of 0.3 kilometers, everyday.

4. I am a hard core, heartless, ruthless, spineless, lochness torturer

      I continued eating, still changing channels when this missile landed on my thigh. It had immediately penetrated deep, on landing and was meticulously sucking. I waited as my master had taught me. He was the perfect assassin, when he was in his prime. He told me how the villain bends his proboscis and slowly inserts it into the skin. Ignorant people blindly swat. Actually, you have to wait. Once the villain has his proboscis stuck inside, he cannot escape. And then you slap your thigh and yell in pain. But success is guaranteed. I was. I caught the struggling mosquito and held it to the light examining it.
      It struggled. My eyes glinted with glee. Yup. I did it. I first tore out its legs, one by one. Then its belly and squeezed it to release my blood. I finally crushed the head.
      I am ruthless. When it comes to mosquitoes, that is.

5. The bane of humankind

      And then I puked. My mom looked at me guiltily. I stared at her for some time and then at the plate, where the hot rice was swimming in sambhar. Finally, I saw them. In numbers, beyond the scope of counting, even by an i-Calculator. My Mom sweetly apologized, saying that her hand slipped. Otherwise there would not have been so many. I felt sorry and kissed her. I gave it another look and puked all over again.
      Mustard screws me up.

    Flashback over, I called up my Mom. I talked for an hour, reminiscing about her feeding me. I wanted her to feed me again.
    She called me a weirdo. The irony of it all.

Scootylicious!

2007-11-18T10:11:00.000+05:30

      She started it. I was not hungry at all. She called me up and threatened to do un-printable severing actions with my un-printable assets. I was not intimidated and hinted quite obviously, that she could jump off the Kanchenjunga sans parachute, than try seduce me to come with her for lunch. But she, Chai, the direct descendant of Attila the Dun(ce), came right up to my room, armed with a Swiss army knife and knocked on my door.
      I had just come back from a refreshing bath and was flirting with myself, flexing my muscles standing in front of the mirror when there was this knock on the door. I hurriedly wrapped up myself in a towel and unsuspectingly opened the door. There she was standing, brandishing her puny, sharp knife at me with a murderous glare and poor me, guarding my lineage with a flimsy, cotton towel. I immediately agreed to whatever was that that she wanted without even thinking. There was no need to. It was a foregone conclusion. Like a Farah Khan movie.
      Ten minutes made history, I was roaming the streets of Ahmedabad on my Scooty in search of a restaurant that she told me she knew exactly where it was and had conveniently forgotten. Smoke literally billowed out of my ears as I fumed beneath my pink shirt. The sun bore down on upon us and my temper was slowly losing its bearings. Then disaster struck.

1. Smoking is injurious to health.
2. It leads to partial amnesia.
3. I am eternally broke.

      All these led to my vehicle sputtering and dying in a rather dramatic manner, right at a traffic signal. It stubbornly refused to start. We stood there like fools, kicking away, like a couple of morons trying to demonstrate the art of cycling to mules. After the traffic policeman came to us and ostentatiously requested the 'saar' and his 'missers' to get off the road, we pulled off the road and parked the vehicle right next to a building. Only after a crow pooped on my shirt and I looked up to swear at the crow did I notice.... Holy Hypermetropic Hannibals of Hungary! We had come to the very place, the very restaurant which she had told she knew exactly where it was and had conveniently forgotten! We had found it!
      We did a jig on the pavement, that made the Aborigine death dance look distinctly civilized, and entered the restaurant which she had said she knew exactly where it was but had conveniently forgotten. We sat, we ordered a pukka Tamil Nadu meals replete with more kozhambu, vadai, bisi bela bath, payasam with extra ghee and sunk into the felt. The food came and we ate, chattering about my ingenuity.
      After an hour of constant munching and swallowing sounds that reverberated around the restaurant, two people burped loudly, apparently contented. We were so full that if Kubrick made a movie on us he would have named it, "Full Glutton Jacket". Bad Joke. Anyway, I smiled at Chai. She too smiled back, very satisfied. And then the bill came.

      Nothing happened for ten minutes. We sat staring at the bill, waiting. It did not dawn on us for quite a long time. We kept on waiting. So did the waiter, looking at us despondently, as if there was only one last beedi on earth and his attaining the antique, depended on the tip we were going to give him. Then it hit us. The inevitable had happened. The oft-told tale of misunderstanding and confusion. The one which we dreaded that we would never dread about. There was nothing wrong with the bill.
       I, because of my past financial connections (condition number 3 included), had come to the evident conclusion that she was going to pay and vice versa.
     The situation was desperate. We had to think of something quick. I took out my mobile phone and answered nobody, slyly excusing myself. I walked out of the restaurant nonchalantly, shouting and gesturing loudly in Tamil, into the phone. My phone was literally covered with two liters of spit. I had to do it; for the dramatic effects. The second I was out of the doors, I broke into a run.
      Seconds later, Chai joined me. We ran and ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. And ran. We kept on running.

And then we remembered my Scooty.