Life Beyond Gokhale

Sachin Tendulkar

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:57:00 +0000

That is all.

The Art of Humour...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 14:30:00 +0000

... or how to kill a joke.

Aum Sweet Home

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 13:40:00 +0000

I wore a t-shirt and shorts all day on Monday. No tie.
I finished work by one-thirty, I slept in the afternoon.
My work tomorrow shall be conducted out of a restaurant.
I'm back in my home town, and I'm loving it.
Last on my list is a small problem - should I start a new blog, should I discontinue this one?
Because life beyond Gokhale is life once again at Gokhale!

Muhahahahahahahahahahaha!

Cheers all!

A Matter of Taste

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 19:31:00 +0000

Bangalore must be one of the prettiest cities in India. People say Chandigarh is not to be sneezed at, but I haven't been there yet, so I'll reserve judgment. Plus, of course, pretty is not on my top ten list of appropriate adjectives when you're talking about a city full of hale and hearty Punju's.

But Bangalore, as I was saying, is very pretty indeed. It's interspersed with gardens every now and then, it is full of little lanes and streets that are relatively empty – at least in the afternoons – and the weather is pleasantly balmy for most of the year. The people are, for the most part, easy going and friendly; save for the rickshaw drivers, but then, you can say that for every city in India, now can't you?

There's a wide variety of restaurants all over the city, serving various kinds of cuisines, ranging from the plebeian to the exotic, and from the cheap to the you're-kidding-me-you-sick-freak! But it is a wonderful city, without a doubt.

And one of the principal reasons it is so very nice is the fact that there's a pub at practically every corner. Especially around MG Road. One cannot help but bump into a pub every five minutes. And having bumped into one, it is merely an act of civility to drop in and spend a pleasant hour or so.

People have passed their weekends by doing nothing other than bumping into one pub after the other for years together. It has become an integral part of the culture around here, so prevalent is the practice, and so numerous the pubs.

Among all these noteworthy watering holes, though, is one that I'm rather predisposed towards. It lies on Rest House Road, which comes on your right if you start walking down Brigade Road from the MG Road side. The second right, in fact. It is a little non-descript kind of place, at least from the outside. In fact, it is very easy to miss it if you haven't got your eyes wide open.

Pecos, of course. The regulars on the blog would have known this from practically the beginning of this essay, for Kulkarni can't help but drool about Pecos if he talks about Bangalore. The two are practically symbiotic, especially for the undersigned.

Forgive me while I wax lyrical about the place a little more. Small, dark and dingy it may be, but I'll wager that there isn't a friendlier place in all of Namma Bengalooru. Not if you searched for it. As I have mentioned many times before, the people are friendly, the waiters are pally, the music is nothing short of perfect and the food is out of this world.

But best of all, of course, is the beer. There are people in the world who would claim that it is watered down, and there are people in this world who will compare it to substances that we shall refrain from mentioning. But their arguments are not worth horse-piss, let me assure you. For the beer in Pecos is perfect. It may be a little mild, I grant you that, but it is good wholesome beer. It can be sipped ruminatively, it can be consumed by the barrel, and it can be downed in a go.

I have done all of that, and much more, for many a weekend in the recent past. Before marriage, in fact, it was more or less a given that Kulkarni and biraadars would be raising holy hell in their corner on the ground floor at Pecos. Pitcher after pitcher would be consumed in the riotous course of a Saturday afternoon. Happy times.

To the point however, for one must not dawdle for too long. People who know me well will admit to this readily. I'm not a man given to boasting. Modest Kulkarni, some of my best friends call me. And deservedly so, I might add. Anyways, as I was saying – I'm not inclined to blow my own trumpet, but even so, I must state this – there is nobody among my friends who can chug a mug of beer faster than I. None, bar none.

Plenty have tried, of course, the poor sods. And there is one who chugged an entire pitcher – a feat I myself have failed in. That is a tale by itself though, and remind me about it one day, for I must narrate it in full. For now, it is enough to say that he puked it all out immediately – and they still talk about that puke in those parts. With a mixture of awe and dismay.

Still, as I was saying. Nobody who can chug better than I. Plenty of Saturday evenings have seen me there in Pecos, mug in hand and strutting away, asking all and sundry to try and beat me at my game. And after I have chugged enough, I reach home. How and when are vague details that I do not bother with too much, but that is beside the point. As is the inevitable hangover. The point is, I like beer, and I like it chugged. The faster, the better.

Not for me the fine wines poured lovingly out of dark, long-necked bottles, into fine, long, stemmed glasses. I can't hold the glass in the palm of my hands, so as to warm the wine just a little (this releases the aromas, apparently). I can't sniff the fruity bouquet, and I can't sniff delicately and appreciatively. Not for me the first gentle sip, and the roll around the tongue. I can't imagine myself, eyes closed in ecstasy, savouring the tannin and the other myriad flavours. I couldn't tell you about the acidity of the wine in a million years. All I know is, the red is a little bitter, the white is not bad. And that the port wine in Goa is really, really cheap.

My idea of drinking is to hold the mug firmly, clink with opponent's mug, and chug. I win, everybody claps, I sway and sit back on seat heavily. Not the connoisseur, I.

The point?

My tastes in cricket are diametrically opposite.

Of Genius Nonpareil

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 22:11:00 +0000

Although they couldn’t have possibly have known about it, the people in attendance at the Lal Bahadur Shastri stadium were in for a royal treat on the 8^th of November 1999. The day had started like any other in the early winter – a touch hazy to begin with and brightening considerably as the day went on; perfect, in other words, for a game of cricket. Which worked out perfectly, for that was the plan for the day.

India was scheduled to play the second one-dayer of a five match series against the Kiwis at that venue, the Kiwis having won the opener. India won the toss that day, and chose to bat. It wasn’t an especially auspicious start for the home team, with Ganguly being dismissed in just the second over, with only ten runs on the board.

In walked Rahul Dravid, fresh from having been declared cricketer of the World Cup held earlier that year. What followed next was nothing short of carnage. Sachin Tendulkar, the man at the other end of that sublime partnership, and Rahul Dravid proceeded to plunder a progressively hapless New Zealand attack to the tune of 331 runs, stopping only when Dravid finally gave up his wicket to Chris Cairns – in the 48^th over of the innings. This didn’t please the little genius too much; and he made his feelings quite clear. The next over, delivered by a gentleman called Drum, leaked twenty eight runs. Sachin reached the boundary on four deliveries, and cleared it once.

It was a master class in batting. Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid combined to form a partnership that wasn't just monstrous in terms of runs scored, it was also a joy to watch. Both were at about their peak around that time, and it was just the Kiwi’s misfortune that they were the supporting cast in that match.

Even better, from our rather prejudiced point of view, that partnership had been privileged with a preview of sorts earlier that year. Then, during the World Cup, these two had combined to put up a partnership of 231 against Kenya in Bristol; Rahul Dravid amassed a not inconsiderable 104 runs, while Sachin scored a majestic 140.

These two instances are a small set of many, of course, when India’s finest batsmen, of this and all other generations, conspired to provide much joy. And India’s finest batsmen these two certainly are. Scoring in excess of twelve thousand test runs in one case, and in excess of ten thousand in the other should alone be proof enough, let alone their records in one-day internationals. Although you don’t really need to back up this claim with numbers. The pure, aesthetic joy that these two have afforded connoisseurs of Indian cricket over the years precludes the need for any statistical argument. Peerless in defence, breathtaking when in attacking mood, both have exhibited the kind of technique that other mortals can only dream of achieving. Champion batsmen, both of them.

Cricket is a sport that lends itself to statistical inferences like none other. It offers more than enough in terms of statistics to compare; meanwhile, it has changed just enough over the years to stop short of a conclusive answer. Still, that doesn’t stop legions of fans the world over from comparing players – over years, teams and generations.

Which is part of the charm of that cricket provides us with, of course. It simply wouldn’t do to be able to conclusively answer questions about the greatest of them all – for what would we do in the after?

Nearly three decades have passed by since Vishy and Sunny were part of the same batting line-up, but that doesn’t stop the age old argument about who had more talent. You’ll find equally vehement supporters of either genius, in the nooks and crannies of both Bangalore and Bombay. Pretty much the same argument will continue, I haven’t the slightest doubt, about both Sachin and Dravid in the decades to come. And that is how it should be.

What is beyond argument, however, is the fact that these two have been India’s best at positions three and four in Tests. No other batsman, of any era, can lay claim to these positions. On every surface, in every nation, these two have proved their ownership of the one down and the two down. In the process, and at different times in the recent past, they have been the best batsmen in the world. If Sachin was master of all he surveyed in 1998, there was none to compare to Dravid in 2002.

And what makes watching both of them all the more pleasing is the fact that in addition to being fearsomely talented and fiercely steely, they’re both acknowledged technicians in the difficult craft of batsmanship.

Take Dravid, for example. Take the time out to watch him when he takes his stance. Feet judiciously spread apart, Dravid bends a little at the knees – just like in the textbook. Back bent just a little, the head is turned to face the bowler, eyes perfectly level. The grip is standard, neither hand taking precedence over the other. At the precise moment that the ball leaves the bowler’s hand, his back foot moves back just a little, to get in line with the ball. The back lift is angled just a little, maybe towards first slip, no more. Eyes firmly on the ball, Dravid remains classically side on as he adjusts his feet as per his judgment of the delivery’s length. In case it is a defensive stroke, the bat meets the ball at just the perfect place, head perfectly still and nicely over the ball, body completely in position, bottom hand nice and loose. The ball is met as late as possible, so as to give it as much time to deviate as can be managed. Somewhere along the line, if Dravid thinks the ball is there to be hit, he will adjust accordingly – and in no other shot is this so precisely realized as in Dravid’s cover drive. In case he thinks that ball is slightly over pitched, his front foot compensates by going forward just a little more. The body leans forward ever so slightly, to ensure he isn’t playing away from the body, and the shoulders, elbows and wrists combine in a symphony of motion that results in the ball speeding away to the boundary – all along the ground. Faultless technique that draws a sigh of appreciation from the spectators, and a slumping of the shoulders from the opposition. Not for nothing is he called the Wall, after all.

The Bombay Bomber is another story altogether. Reams have been written about his unorthodox technique – but not enough focus has been given about his adaptability. Compare Dravid’s footage from the mid-nineties to the present day, and there will hardly be a change in technique. What was written in the preceding paragraph was as true then as it is now.

Not so for Sachin, however. He has certainly changed over the years. Not so much in terms of his grip or the stance perhaps, but certainly in terms of initial movement. Depending on the pitch, the bowler and the conditions, Sachin will either simply lean forward just a little, move back and across, or quite literally walk into his shot. Not for him the conventional and the orthodox every time – he is quite happy to modify his game if he feels the need. He was quite happy, for example, to take a little step towards the stumps during the 2003 World Cup – he was quite literally walking into his shot. This was in sharp contrast to his tactics in the 1996 World Cup, where there was very little or no initial movement – and of course, he didn’t too badly in either tournament. Which only goes to show his versatility – not for him the conformity and certainty born of doing the same thing time and again.

Before Sachin burst on to the international scene, however, it would have been quite difficult to convince your coach about the benefits of a predominantly bottom hand grip. It works beautifully for the little man, of course, given his low centre of gravity. Combined with his almost unfair ability to judge the length of the ball, and quickly get in position accordingly, it gives him that perfect positioning to take full advantage of the delivery. Which he usually manages to do – almost all of the time. You can’t speak enough of Sachin’s ability to manufacture the perfect shot for almost every delivery he faces – about how he seems to be perfectly placed to play the shot of his choice – as if he has anticipated the bowler. Rather like Federer in tennis – for both of them, the ball waits an extra nanosecond, as if in deference.

Whether in attack or in defence, then, Sachin seems the epitome of perfection. Conversely however, in comparison to Dravid, Sachin looks to attack first, and defend later. His defensive shot is an outcome of he having judged an attacking shot to be injudicious, and not the other way around. Still, in either case, one can hardly deny that it is extremely pleasing to the eye.

Sachin’s style isn’t from the textbooks, however. In retrospect, it cannot be, for it works only given that Sachin is what he is. He’s adapted, through literally decades of practise, a style that suits him perfectly. In other words, he’s quite literally written a textbook that suits, and can be followed, only by himself.

There was another before Sachin, an artist who chose to create his own style rather than walk down the classical path – an artist with a repertoire as varied as Sachin, and an oeuvre that is no less in magnificence. There was only one man who could have sung “O Mere Dil Ke Chain” with as much felicity as “Kuch to Log Kahenge”. There was only one Kishore Kumar. He too was considered unorthodox. He too was not one to the textbook born – like Sachin, he patented his own technique, fashioned out of many hours of hard work. But the finished product was peerless, without compare.

Only he could have sung “Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhaagi Si” and only he could have sung “Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si”. The effervescence of “Khai Ke Paan Banaraswala” could as easily give way to the sombreness of “Dukhi Man Mere”. Kishore was to the world of singing what Sachin is to cricket – an unorthodox, brilliant talent with a wide ranging repertoire. Both were equally adept at adapting to the demands of their times. If Kishore was able to transition smoothly from the melodies of R.D. Burman to the disco beats of the eighties, Sachin was equal to the task of acquiring for himself the sweep – where earlier he could only turn the ball of his toes, he is now a consummate master at dabbing it around the corner. Many more examples can be given of their talent and unorthodoxy (witness the uppercut), but this is nonetheless a delightful analogy – and hopefully, a compliment to both. Both acknowledged geniuses, and both pleasingly unorthodox.

And if one were to complete the analogy, as indeed one must, then there is only one singer who can step forward with aplomb to match Dravid’s technical virtuosity. With years of highly technical training behind him, and with a voice that comprised chiefly of lemon and honey, Mohammad Rafi was to the world of vocals what the Wall is to the cricketing greens.

Only a person steeped to the gills in classical training could do full justice to a song as demanding as “Mere Mehboob” – which, of course, he did in full measure. It is easy to draw parallels between Rafi Sa’ab and Dravid – for no matter their endeavours, the first quality that one notices is that of technical correctness. Even the lighter numbers that Rafi Sa’ab sang – and there were more than a few of them – are stamped with the vocal equivalent of a straight bat. Witness “Aja, Aja” from Teesri Manzil, or “Deewana Mujhsa Nahin” from the same film; wonderfully, easily and very correctly sung.

Likewise Dravid’s hitting out. Even the slogs have a measure of correctness to them. Cast your mind back to the tri-series final in South Africa in the ’96-’97 season, when Dravid laid into Donald. The hits crossed the boundary, no doubt, but they did so in a very prim and propah manner. They were dispatched there by Dravid, after all – they had to follow decorum. Likewise with Rafi – he might sing “ Aai Aai Ya Sukoo Sukoo” with gay abandon – but he couldn’t help there being a degree of correctness even in that mad melody.

Correctness be damned for Kishore Kumar, though. Not that he couldn’t call upon it when asked to, of course – “Mere Naina Saawan Bhaado”, for example – but the eccentric genius was equally at home singing “C.A.T. Cat... Cat Maane Billi”. Similarly, again, Sachin is equally adept at making a bowler sink abjectly with a rock solid defence – but he is equally liable to uppercut a perfectly good delivery right over the slip cordon, even in a Test.

There are not too many instances, unfortunately, of Kishore and Rafi having sung together, let alone different versions of the same song. I can only recollect “Tum Bin” and maybe the medley in “Yaadon Ki Baraat” – but the instances are not too many.

How blessed are we then, in the world of cricket, to have seen these stalwarts play together on many an occasion. There is no coincidence in the following statistic – they form the most successful pair in Indian cricket history, ever. Over a twelve year period, they have played over a hundred times together in tests, scoring over five thousand runs in the process.

And even today, in the autumn of their glorious careers, we have the pleasant prospect of seeing Kishore and Rafi bat together for some time to come. Enjoy it while it lasts, for there isn’t a better sight in world cricket.

As to the question of who is better between the two; well, music fans are undecided after more than fifty years of heated comparison – we’re only fourteen years into the rivalry. Of one thing we can be sure – both will provide our canons with still more fodder.

And for that, we should be grateful.

Play on, gentlemen, play on.

Perfect Monday Reading

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 10:46:00 +0000

You want to know what is the perfect Monday-afternoon-half-empty-teacup-in-front-of-you-blooooooooorrrrrrrrgh-being-your-chief-emotion kind of read?

Then say thanks .

Thought For The Day

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 09:18:00 +0000

Time runs out of batteries on Mondays

Wrapping Up Time, Peoples...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 14:26:00 +0000

Done. Finito.
Bangalore is going to be waving a tearful goodbye to moi in about three weeks. It's been a crazy three years... well, almost. Almost three years, and almost crazy.
There's been a refurbishing of the Yam, there's been the Belladonna. Trips to Mysore, to Pune, to Goa... hell, I got married.
But c'est tout. Finis.
Ata Pune.

But it wouldn't hurt to touch upon a couple (and maybe more) of vignettes around this place - fun times should be noted down for posterity.

Although it might be prudent to note, given my procrastination skills, that this is merely a plan - don't get your hopes too high.

Cheers!

Free

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 20:13:00 +0000

No ties on Mondays. No projects, no deliverables, no meetings, no reviews, no goals, no calls, no all hands, no town halls, no one on ones, no time-lines, no presentations, no decks, no pitches, no immersions, no models, no scoring, no data refreshes, no queries, no left joins, no right joins, no outer joins, no equi-joins, no power lunches, no working lunches, no seminars, no round tables, no presentation-to-senior-managements, no dry runs, no visits, no on-sites, no off-sites, no team meetings, no validations, no peer reviews, no reruns, no reworks, no modifications, no back-ups, no transitions, no databases, no cross team projects, no roadshows, no initiatives, no goal-sharing, no quick checks, no modifications, no merit cycles, no on-boarding, no new joinees, no interns, no dummy projects, no live projects, no follow-up calls, no calendars, no meeting requests, no appointments, no rescheduling, no conferences, no dial-in's, no agendas, no cubicles, no meeting rooms, no coffee machines, no water coolers, no farewells, no welcomes, no expectations, no meets-expectations, no exceeds-expectations, no to-do list, no fire-drills, no golden hour, no quick turnarounds, no quick hits, no deep dives, no exploratory analyses, no request forms, no proposals, no PPT's, no Excel sheets, no output, no code, no log, no one-over-ones, no rhythm, no pulse, no calendars, no all-nighters, no pick-ups, no drops, no cabs, no time sheets, no footprints, no utilization sheets, no ice-breakers, no trainings, no hands-on, no contests, no quizzes, no team-building sessions, no ad-hocs.

Free.

Limerick

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 09:02:00 +0000

There was once a firm full of idiots,
Whose defining characteristic was being nuts,
They'd come into office and blabber,
On a scale to make you stagger,
The lot of 'em needed a kick up their butts

A new beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 04:33:00 +0000

Peoples.
Especially peoples who like Pune, have a look here .

For the nonce, blogging will be rather more frequent there.
Danke.

Born Free

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 13:39:00 +0000

This post, dear reader, is an indirect result of reading this.

Getting a salary at the end of the month is a truly wonderful thing. There's money in the bank, and there's pubs and restaurants and bookstores and theaters and motorcycles and so many other things. All of which may not be quite as within reach without the dog tag around your neck.

On the other hand, there's Mondays. There's appraisals, politics, charts in Excel, deliverables, client calls, presentations, Microsoft Powerpoint, client visits and an invisible chain that binds you effortlessly to your desk - five days a week. Your time is not yours, your work is not yours and you are the company's.

As with most other things in life, there's the good; and there's the bad.

The trouble is, the salary is just too good a deal to pass up. The safety, the guarantee, the respect that only comes out of being able to write "Salaried" under Occupation when you fill up a form is too enticing a safety net. Late Friday nights and slow Monday afternoons are pin pricks that cause momentary discomfort, that's all.

Every now and then, though, life throws up a twist in the tale, and a brief window of opportunity shows itself fleetingly. Not once or twice, upon reflection; I've had quite a few chances - and perhaps so have you. You've come within the proverbial inch of upping and doing it - hang the consequences. But as with me, perhaps the fever has subsided for you as well. Reason has returned to it's throne, and common sense has once again won the day.

But as with me, perhaps the dream lives on for you as well. It festers and it throbs. It subsides when the bonus is announced, and it goes dormant upon finally getting that promotion. Terminal decline is almost achieved with the onset of EMI-itis.

It lives on though; it can't die, you see, for it is the real you. And opportunity keeps knocking, perhaps a little more feebly each time, but it knocks.

And for the umpteenth time, I stand at yet another crossroads, and for the umpteenth time I wonder. I start to take the plunge, and I hesitate. Well meaning friends, relatives, colleagues and acquaintances offer advise. As, I suppose, would I if the position were reversed.

As were you, dear reader, I too was born free. I too have shackled myself, and I too hesitate to listen to my heart.

I'll let you know how it turns out - one way or the other.

In the meantime - pray for me, brother.

Cheers.

It's Time

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 15:53:00 +0000

I love the place.

Friends are there, brothers are there, family is there.

I grew up there. There is joy within when I go back, and there is sadness within when I leave.

This time around, I intend to stay.

My city, my home.

Peoples, Kulkarni wants to go back home.

A whiff of history

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 04:46:00 +0000

It doesn't exist anymore, unfortunately. Both of them don't, actually.
Long gone and consigned to the realm of nostalgia.

Try telling that to a Punekar, though.

Till date, if he is to direct you past that grand old landmark, he'll still say, "Go past University Circle..."
Or, if he has taken a dislike to you (and given that he is a Grand Old Punekar, I wouldn't bet against it), he might well say, "Go past the fountain at University Circle..."

And the trouble, dear old friends, is that there is neither a circle, nor a fountain, at the confluence of Baner Road, Pashan Road and Ganeshkhind Road. Not any more.

But there used to be. Ages ago, back when you could find parking space on Fergusson College Road, back when going to Camp meant a day's expedition, and back when Parihar Chowk was the very outer reach of Pune City... back then, there was a roundabout outside Pune University. At the centre of that roundabout was a fountain.

In the grand old whimsical tradition of Puneri bureaucracy, it would spout water only for an hour in the evenings. In the equally grand old tradition of the Puneri populace, visits to the fountain would be timed to coincide with the first gush of water. Regular tourist spot, it was.

Which leads us to our topic du jour.

Once the gallivanting around the fountain was done, the genteel people of Pune, family in tow, would head towards the start of Pashan Road. Where, in unbroken line, there stood a host of tapris. Some sold anda bhurji, some sold ice creams. Some offered fruits and juices, while some vended pav bhaji. One particularly outstanding specimen - and this is sure to strike a chord with every Grand Old Punekar - sold bhajis out of an old dilapidated van.

Come evening time, there would be a regular rush at the place. People would park their bikes on the other side of the street, and youngsters from the stalls would rush at you, thrusting menus into your hand, encouraging you to go ahead and feast. Families, professionals, lovers, children - all would congregate there to partake of the varied choices on offer.

The stalls on the other side would be lit up by now, gaudy neon signs lit up in blue, red and green. Business would go on until around 10.30, after which the road would finally fall silent, until the next evening came around.

The stall I remember the most, though, was a Chinese stall. The food wasn't different from the fare offered by the other Chinese stalls in the vicinity - as you would expect. Nothing about it, in fact, was very different.

But you know how it is. You tend to pick a favourite, and stick with it. And so it was with me. Having gone there a couple of times, I kept going to the same stall every time. I'd have the usual fare: a bowl of soup, and either noodles or rice with some gravy.

But the thing that I remember the most was that the soup was for 12 bucks a bowl. 10 if you were a vegetarian. A point that I remember with some poignancy when I pay 100 bucks for a bowl of authentic, lightly flavoured, lemongrass infused, flavorful soup at some fancy-shmancy restaurant today.

And today, when I walk past the very pretty, very pointless flyover, past the beautifully done up Pashan Road, with all smooth tarmac and working signals and all, I still get a twinge of nostalgia.

And I'd still rather have my chicken hot and sour at Fountain Spot on a cold Pune evening, split one by two with a buddy.

Tchah.

My kingdom for a vada pav

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 13:27:00 +0000

Do you know the kind of cold that hits your face when you step outdoors?
It is like a thousand pin pricks on your face. It is shockingly cold, and it awakens your soul. And in anticipation, there appears a smile on your face.
There is a moderately stiff breeze, and you can hear the rustle in the trees. It's just about going to be dusk, and you know the night is going to be cold. Even though you have a sweater on, you know it'll take a while for the warmth to accumulate. And the anticipation of the warmth suffices for the moment, while the cold makes itself felt.
Your shoes crunch gravel as you walk away from the building. There's not too many people left around, but you're all right with that. You walk under the streetlights; they're just about making their presence felt. It is a cold wintry evening, and life could not be better.
And you walk towards the tapri. There's a small crowd there already - residents from nearby apartments, collegians, people coming back from an evening walk, regular all sorts. They're all huddled together in a loosely knit group, adorned with sweaters, jackets, scarves and mufflers, making inconsequential conversation as they wait.
You join the group, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at the regulars. And you wait.
The first splatter of water hits the oil that has been heating up in a large black vessel, the sound immediately focusing interest on matters at hand. The kindly old man at the vessel smiles a little, indicating that business is now under way.
One by one, little patties of boiled, mashed potatoes, interspersed with finely chopped onion, green chillies and garlic are deftly coated with besan, and slipped into the hot, spluttering oil. Turning rapidly golden, the little patties puff up a little, immersed in their own little sea of foam in the oil. They're overturned once, before the entire batch is taken out of the oil, and onto an old newspaper.
Another man takes each one of these, and puts them in fresh pav, applying green chilly chutney and tamarind chutney on the one side, and a fiery red garlicky, dry chutney on the other.
These are then deposited, in rapid succession, either singly or in doubles, on small multi-colored plastic plates. For company, there is a lightly fried green chilly, coated with salt.
And then you take your garma-garam vada pav, with the chilly by the side, and you walk a little to the side. You hold it in your hand, and you take a little nibble. Extremely hot, you blow on the little morsel in your mouth. The vada in your had exudes steam, and your palate is a confluence of varied spices - the chilly and the tamarind and the potatoes; all commingling wonderfully. All set off by the soft chewy pav, and a better combination is not be had on Mother Earth.
And then you partake of hot chai in a chipped glass. At three bucks a glass, the chai is warm in the palm of your hands. You stand by the road, watching the world pass by over the rim of your glass. There's elaichi in there, and there's cardamom. Hot and strong, the tea has been bubbling over for ages before it has finally been wrung out into the copper kettle, and then into your glass.
The spices have not yet left your tongue, and each sip of the strong milky tea scalds your taste-buds, still alight from their battles with the vada pav. You take a sip at a time, involuntary tears springing into your eyes, while a wonderful warmth settles in your tummy.
And finally, you sit on your bike, the evening's repast done, to head away from the tapri. Night has fallen while you were engaged otherwise, and it is colder still.
You, however, are impervious.
You've just had a Puneri vada pav and chai.

Thank Me Later...

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 14:15:00 +0000

But for now, click here .

And enjoy.

So long then.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 10:54:00 +0000

O sport, you cruel cruel mistress.

What is sport really? Battle, that's what it is. A civilized one, to be sure. No blood is shed, and no lives are lost. But sport, at the end of the day, is civilization's response to our innate need to compete. To fight, to pit oneself against the best there is. To engage in a duel, and to emerge victorious. And to do it in gentlemanly fashion - to do it with sportsmanship.

A good editor, in the interests of his mistress - brevity - could have shortened that paragraph to but two words. Anil Kumble.

For to a generation of Indians, Anil Kumble epitomised all that is sports. He embodied grit, perseverance, sweat, gumption, guts, toil and victory. For if you close your eyes and think of Kumble, you think of the man striding forward, fist clenched and hand raised; having just claimed yet another wicket.

He had not the guile, nor the class of Warne. He had not the ability to bewitch batsman like Murali did. And verily it was true; Prasad spun the ball more than he did.

But the batsman facing him knew this much - that no matter how many runs on board, no matter the score, no matter the state of the innings, match or series; Anil Kumble would be at the top of his run up, twirling the ball, gritting his teeth, and waiting.

Broken jaw, broken fingers, stitches, bandages and painkillers. But Anil Kumble would be there, waiting to bowl one more ball, to take one more wicket. Because Anil Kumble simply did not know better. His nature was to fight, one more time.

But no more. Having showed the way in a career that ranged from Alan Lamb to Mitchell Johnson, he has finally hung up his boots.

Indian cricket is immeasurably the poorer for it.

Well played, Anil. Well played.

Arre But - Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 10:53:00 +0000

Ladies and Gentlemen,

And the creeps who call themselves my friends,

I'm going to get married on the 23rd of November, 2008.

And as an aspiring writer, I know that I've goofed up. You're supposed to build up to the climax, you're not supposed to start with it. Which, of course, is exactly what I've gone and done - once you've let that particular cat out of the bag, there really is very little left to write about.

Sort of like all of philosophy being nothing but a footnote to Plato, only a lot more cataclysmic.

Still, be that as it may, it was important to be frank and manly and get that off my chest. Right at the outset, as it were. No beating around the bush, no dilly-dallying. Out with it and all that.

So. Yes, I'm getting married. Traipsing down the aisle, getting into holy wedlock, catching the tiger by the tail.

And you, my devoted, loyal readership; you will be treated to a ringside view of the entire circus. You'll meet the bride-in-waiting (Vasundhara Sen, known to all and sundry by her nom-de-battleaxe - Boshu), you'll meet both the families, the many delighted shopkeepers in Delhi and Pune, the rest of the ensemble (who, it must be said, is looking forward to the whole thing with disgustingly ghoulish delight) and it will all culminate in a picture of I in a dhoti.

And by God, if that is not bait, I don't know what is.

Keep an eye out for these yarns - if past evidence is anything to go by, Kulkarni will be dishing up some entertainment for sure.

"Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up" - Joseph Barth

Home. Now and forever.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 12:36:00 +0000

She lies sprawled in the shadow of the Sahyadris. Around two hundred kilometers south of that ugly megapolis, and infinitely cooler, quieter and more relaxed.

She is growing with time, and that is inevitable. She is not aging as well as she might, and that is sad.

She is sarcastic, she is biting.

She is getting colder by the day. There will be biting winds, and there will be chilly nights. Warm cozy blankets, and the smell of moth balls as they're removed from the trunks. A nip in the air, and sweaters on morning walks. Involuntary shivers on the bike, and speedometers frosted over with dew in the mornings.

She is getting more crowded with time. The traffic is well nigh unbearable. Piled up vehicles, and ugly, garish malls. But the lanes are still leafy, and they still sleep in the still of the afternoon. Dappled sunlight still filters through in the quiet that three p.m. produces.

She still has tapris that make wonderful chai, and she still has tapris that make vada pavs with just the right amount of chili, garlic and coriander. The red dry chutney, and the fried chillies coated with salt.

She still has my family, and she still has some of my friends. She still has my Gokhale. It'll be three years soon, since she and I have temporarily parted ways, and she waits patiently for my return. As she does for the return of every son who left her reluctantly.

She, the Queen of the Deccan, will be visited by one of her own over the coming weekend.

Correction: two of her own. And both of us can't wait.

Pune!

Monday Meri Jaan.

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 13:07:00 +0000

Seven in the evening on Monday. In office. Another hour to go.

Satan exists, for only he could have created this.

Money For Nothing

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 06:30:00 +0000

And chicks for free, while you're at it.

Continuing with the alarming of trend that self has displayed; we attempt here to further intellectualize the blog.

We do it, of course, in true blue Gokhale fashion - watch the video, and thank me later. Cheers.

Being

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 05:02:00 +0000

Grey tarmac, the open road.

Green foliage, a stream of wind roars

In my ears and

Villages pass me by, one hut

At a time. Children stare

In frank curiosity, others more

Circumspect. Now open plains and

Now steep wooded curves. Dark

And overcast. Rain overhead and

Darker horizons. The silent coast;

Quieter hinterland. Border check posts;

free highways. Old trucks;

New cars. A solitary bike - mine. A smile.

Aching shoulders and weary knees. Bloodshot

Eyes and grimy face. Tired body and

Refreshed mind. Incomplete odometer;

Yearning for home. Happiness.

Grey tarmac, the open road

That Little State That Neighbours Karnataka and Maharashtra

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 13:34:00 +0000

You can't (at any rate, I can't) write about Goa. Too much effort.

Finance; And Then There Were None

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 11:33:00 +0000

Life Beyond Gokhale prides itself on being wonderfully non-academic.

It hates all things head-scratching-inducing. It always will.

Still, being somewhat of a somewhat trained economist, I cannot resist pointing you here . Please do not bother clicking unless you are interested in knowing why the business section of your newspaper seems to break into fresh hives everyday.

But if you are, you will not find a more lucid passage, explaining it all. Wah Wah! types.

And now on to a far more interesting topic - albeit a rather poignant one.

One's gone and said adieu , and now we wait with baited, and resigned breath. Cricket's not going to be the same again.

Belladonna

noreply@blogger.com (Ashish) — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 04:08:00 +0000

Read this, in order to read this.

"Bella donnas on the high street
Her breasts upon the off beat
And the stalls are just the side shows
Victorianas old clothes
And yes her jeans are tight now
She gotta travel light now
Shes gotta tear up all her roots now"
- Portobello Belle, Dire Straits

I call my motorcycle, a military green 1999 Bullet, The Belladonna.

Belladonna is, among other cheerful things, a deadly nightshade and a fading American porn star.Etymologically, however, it means "Fair Lady" - with a slightly negative connotation, since it also refers to a poison extracted from the belladonna plant.

And although I did not know all this when I got the bike, she's turned out to be all of that and more.

Seen here in quiet repose, the Belladonna became a part of my life in March 2007.

And ladies and gentlemen, I'll have you know that since then, she's been an absolute bitch.

Acquired: March 2007.

First breakdown: April 2007

In the garage from: April 2007

To: June 2007

Second Breakdown: November 2007 (Although a certain $%$%^$% was responsible for that)

Third Breakdown: February 2008

Accelarator Cable Snapped: June 2008

Induction Coil Down: July 2008

In fact, the pic that you see up there was taken after her first breakdown, on a trip to Chikmaglur.

But a true lover of the Belladonna is helpless, you see. He trusts her no matter what, and he believes. He truly believes. And well, what the hell, at the end of it all, it doesn't matter. Although he knows that she will collapse, and she will fail him, he will abide by her. He will ride on.

And so at three in the afternoon, on the 30th of September, 2008, Kulkarni and his loyal steed left Bangalore, to embark on her longest journey yet. At least 800 kms of solid riding to come, and self, as usual, was going to wing it on nothing more than a prayer.

Out of the charming, congested, catastrophic city that is Bangalore at 5, truly on the highway at 6.

Smooth roads all the way from Tumkur to Chitradurga, and she belts along at 80. On and on and on.

Ranebennur at 11 in the night, where an attempt at slumber is made. But a wonderful concotion of adrenalin and mosquitoes render that a doomed attempt. On and on, having crossed the pothole that calls itself Davangere. Haveri at around one in the morning, and Hubli about an hour after that. Fog in the air, a nip in the air, a remarkably well-behaved engine, and a shivering Kulkarni.

Finally, at around three in the morning, I get off the highway and collapse onto a bed somewhere in Belgavi.

Only to be woken up at 7.30 by Girish, and his non-existent bus driver.

And so on to Kolhapur, from where on in, bhaisaab tells it far better than I could.

But the Belladonna rode like the wind, and she did not fail me once. Nearly two years after wooing her, she finally relented - and I'm, as I always was, in love.

"Bella donnas in the jungle
But she aint no garden flower
These aint no distress in the tower
Oh, bella donna walks
Bella donna taking a stroll"

- Portobello Belle, Dire Straits

Umm say, bro - there can be more than two players in a jugalbandi, no?

You think he might be interested in describing a leetle beet of Goa?