Whispering Wanderers

Economic Times - The Corner Office

2011-11-16T14:39:00.001+05:30

    "There is no shortcut to the corner office. Or is there?" went the ad in the paper. 2 hours and a short ride later, sitting in one of the assembly-line cubicles in the big blue building, the question ran across my eyes like an invisible ticker. I had to know the answer. Standing up, the corner office was in clear line of sight. About 30 feet away, shimmering with all its sharp-looking furniture and with all the attention that a wealthy tourist in Bangkok gets. It surely wasn't the corner office I aspired for - this one had the printers, brochures of our products and services and other 'intellectual capital' stacked high as the eye. If there was a shortcut to this office, I didn't care about it. I guess the ads weren't talking of the literal corner offices but the metaphorical ones.

    The advent of HR as an important function made redundant the premise of the ad. Corner offices weren't physically corner offices anymore. Everyone followed an open door policy and on those rare occasions when the senior management wasn't canoodling a client, you could always walk in and take your annual quota of 15 minutes from him or her. This was the childhood equivalent of getting chocolates from the 'America Uncle' whom you barely knew. America Uncle would forget you the moment he set foot on foreign shores. And so will the senior management. But you still had the chocolates. The metaphorical corner office lay not on the x-axis but the y-axis. As one grew in the organization, the floor on which one's office is located goes up by storey-by-storey.

    The ticker ran again in front of my eyes. Economic Times promised that becoming a Young Leader would change things forever. A leading daily and one with strong views on the economy - perhaps they had a view or two about career progression as well. I didn't see myself as a guy in a hurry. 'Give it a shot' said the voice inside. South Indian meals for 40 Rs. at the canteen upstairs - drowned the voice for 4 hours straight. The next morning without much of a thought, I went to the portal and completed the activities. One round followed another and nearly 3 months later the results were out. 22, yours truly included were in the list. A visit to Bombay for the panel discussion and grand dinner ensued. The long-term impact is still too early to be gauged. But in the short term, we had a chance to spend 2 hours talking to some of the top honchos of Corporate India. Completely worth the experience.

    2 days from now I set off to ISB, Hyderabad. 'Accelerated Management Programme' says the word document sent by the program organizer. 'Accelerate' - the old message on the invisible ticker running across my eyes, is replaced with this one word. Maybe this is what I need to step on the pedal. To draw in a little more of fuel from around and get that extra boost of energy. Either ways, I know one thing with certainty - the course alone is not going to change anything beyond being a refresher of what I learnt (or feigned learning) 6 years ago. I look at the Young Leaders as a fantastic platform; one that makes you run faster and with more stamina and certainty towards a goal. There are however, no shortcuts to the corner office.

http://www.facebook.com/etleaders

To Dosa or not to Dosa

2011-11-12T20:50:00.001+05:30

Culinary complexities this side of the Vindhyas are as deep as the number of ways a saree can be wrapped around oneself (assuming ‘oneself’ is a woman). And the epitome of such complexity, more due to diversity than the raw materials constituting it is the humbling dosa. There are many variants to the dosa. The offering changes from home to home and restaurant to restaurant. There’s the smooth-as-Smitha neer dosa from Mangalore, Bangalore’s own rava dosa which comes with the personality of a desert rattle snake, and the ubiquitous masala dosa. Further north we have dosas with a change in the stuffing – the Chinese dosa which makes you wonder if Hindi-Cheeni are really bhai-bhai, dosas with cheese and even dosas with other dosas as stuffing.

‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ went the Bard. The Bard’s pincode did not belong to Malleswaram, Bangalore or Mambalam, Chennai. If it did, he’d have a deep long look while writing that quote and promptly crush the papyrus into the bin. The way one pronounces a word, more than the word itself, is key to how far you get around within the IT parks that dot the landscape south of the Plateau. There’s the Tamilian dho-sigh¸ which in translations north of the plateau makes you wonder if the dosa is served with the waiter sighing twice, instead of the traditional double chutney. An Iyengar or Iyer would throw in that hint of a nasal twang with the dho-sIgh. In the north, the land of the spring dosas and other such blasphemous dosa progenies, the stress is on the first syllable – DOsa, asserting in typical aggressiveness, their supremacy over the humble batter.

Every state would have its share of legends on the origin of the dosa. The journey from legend to truth is a long one, spanning many generations of potato-fillings for the dosa and newer legends would be formed as often as new variants of sambar are being created. One version talks of how the first dosas were made by nuns in the missionaries in Mangalore. The Kannadiga calls his childhood kitchen sweetheart, dhosey, while his cousins across the Almatti Dam would go dhosa every Sunday morning. At the risk of not being sure, God’s own country and by logical deduction, God pronounce it dho-shy, leaving the spring dosa hunters, to wonder if the Malayali was bitten once, to be shy twice.

The loved are called more often. If recent polls are any indication the dosa will brace itself for many more a-calling. But whatever the tongue, or the marriage of syllables, the stuffing or lack of it, each time the dosa will respond to the calling with the same love as the chef’s twirl of wrist. Shakespeare, perhaps was right. A rose smells just as sweet by any other name.

Walking Tall

2011-11-11T20:59:00.000+05:30

It’s been 3 years since I’ve owned an Enfield. Many a ride taken, through rains and skin-scorching sun, many a mile and historic town that has gone past with the all-too familiar thump of splitting the roads. It had to give one day. And it did. 3 weeks ago while nearly 10 km away from home on a wonderful Sunday. I looked around frantically for a mechanic who could fix it. For all the love of the Enfield that I have, I’m not good with tools. I’m more inclined towards the inner beauty of the beast while not capable of prying it open, like a doctor. And so the search took many forms – calls to friends who lived in the neighbourhood to rely on local knowledge, prayers to the almighty to make the best mechanic in town walk that same path I was stranded on, coincidentally and meaningless tinkering of the wiring hidden beneath the casing on the left. Finally, a search on the phone yielded a mechanic who could fix it who would be open on that day in that neighbourhood. Relief was only momentary since in a week there was a breakdown again. The first mechanic had not given it the health check of a specialist but that of a general practitioner.

With the festival week staring ahead, I knew that I’d have to get back to the oldest form of civilization’s travel – on foot. For ten days now I’ve relied on my feet for transportation services. And it feels great. I read somewhere that all it takes to begin a journey is to take the first step. And then another. And then another before the journey is already underway. While that may have been a metaphor, to me it was a literal journey. For a week now I’ve walked to every place I have to go – Java city, the coffee house that’s my home away from home; the grocery store for the day’s calories; the gym to burn away the previous day’s groceries and to meet friends round the corner. It feels great. It’s been 10 days now and the throttle of the Enfield is back where it belongs – on the road. But the break was just what I wanted to remind of the most basic forms of transportation. Sometimes we forget that fitness is just round the corner. We don’t need expensive memberships in the fitness center, we don’t need to go on diets, crash or extended to keep the health ticker moving. All it takes is a good walk.

You know where to begin – take the first step! The road is yours!!

The Guru and the Gandhian

2011-06-30T19:49:00.000+05:30

Below is a true account. It involves a Gandhian and a guru, interlaced with excerpts of interactions between the two protagonists.

Guru (in response to an earlier unrecorded question, one that can only be hazarded a guess to revolve around the Gandhian’s bad bowels): "Shirshashana can move mountains. And I’m sure what you’re trying to move isn’t much of a mountain – a mound at best! That’s what you get if you don’t follow my ‘Four easy asanas to free bowel movement Movement’"
Gandhian: "Shirishashana, my head! And my foot! They changed positions. As for the Satvik diet – that’s the reason for me to become more expressive with my bowels.”

The Gandhian had it easier than the guru the last few days. On the 21st day of his fast, during which he consumed nothing but water every day, after a breakfast of cornflakes and soya milk and a dinner of samosas, the cops rounded up him and his support group. Further up the country, the guru tried starting a grass-root movement. The event had many reasons for failing, chief among them being the camel fair held a day earlier – there were no grassroots for the followers. Aforementioned cops did their bit. While they were gentle in their prodding of the Gandhian, a midnight raid left the guru and his motley crew of followers, little time to get away. While being dragged and kicked out of the venue, the guru was heard yelling “I like salwar-kameezes and have a crush on Simi Garewal in white!”

With fasts becoming the hippest form of protesting, both thinktanks worked overdrive to find new causes. This was an industry that needed to be guided and nurtured. And soon there were causes – good ones, bad ones, long ones, short ones and one to make fasts faster.

Young men in Haryana fasted to force their government reduce the number of police patrol vehicles past midnight. Sreesanth and his fans fasted to make abusing Australians legal on Indian grounds, before all 3 of them were bundled off by the BCCI. And the top honchos of the consulting world fasted to make .ppt a legal language. In their collective wisdom they came upon protocols for fasting – presented in Times New Roman to a committee including the guru and the Gandhian. They laid out the laws – there shall be no fast longer than 30 days, there shall be no fast shorter than 30 minutes. Fasts can be broken when it rains or if it’s too sunny. And of most importance, all men who fast shall have in their bags a salwar-kameez. Only the purest silk shall do.

Time, Stand Still – Hotel Airlines (Part II)

2011-06-03T19:00:00.000+05:30

Everybody needs a home away from home. For many it is a religious center – a temple, a church and for the atheists, their favourite pub with the gods bearing first names Jimi or Bob. For us, and I’ll briefly introduce the “us”, its Hotel Airlines. While starting off on Part I of this blog, the intent was to talk more of the “us”. It was only after the start that it dawned on me – while 4 of us meet at the place regularly, what bonds us was the 5th entity - the place itself. So Part I went in describing the place and the emotions it whips up.

Everybody needs a home away from home. Where they feel welcome and even if they don’t feel welcome, they don’t mind. You can’t be a guest at your own home, can you!? The waiters at Airlines go all-out in ensuring you feel at home. As mentioned earlier, there are lines drawn with wands that separate each waiter’s ‘area’ of tables from the others’. Like a friend puts it, these are Lines of Control and are taken very seriously. Ask something of a waiter from the enemy territory and the cold stare he gives along with the wave of the finger, suggesting “barthaare (he’ll come shortly)”, makes you feel like it’s a happy birthday party in Alaska – in your birthday suit. Few patrons have dared ask twice the same waiter, the whereabouts of his area’s designated man. Once bitten at Airlines and you’d be as shy as a newly-wed on the first night (strictly talking arranged marriages here). Trying to encroach upon another’s territory is like expecting breakfast before the gods have been given their quota of morning calories in an Iyengar household. That’s how much the waiters make you feel at home.

Asking for a tea/2, initiates a series of actions that would be banned in any self-respecting middle-eastern country. The WHO’s executive committee in its collective wisdom would yell out “WOO HOOO” upon spotting the hygiene levels. Empty glasses left in the open make you question authority. But the ones at Airlines start off an entire game of 20Q. The tap plays the role of Director, Make-shift Sink, c/o Massive Tree. Few swirls like those done by a Romanian gymnast later, precise-yet-meaningless, and the water is thrown on the ground you stand on. The waiter then proceeds to quickly split the tea into two. A deft flick of the hand is all it takes. What they miss out on quality, they make up with the metric system. An eye-to-eye check of the glasses, held at mid-riff level is undertaken to ensure both patrons who sought the tea/2 are given equal volumes of the tea.

None of the waiters ever make eye-contact unless provoked or seriously threatened. Their vision settles on a spot of “No Smoking” on a distant wall, easily recognizable by the hoard of smokers under it. Looking at you and acknowledging your presence, is in their books, putting the two of you on an equal plane. He may serve you two and take your money. He may obey a few of your commands and still like you tipping him. But as true as the brew in his hand, he’s superior to you. And he knows it. Waiters of Airlines, take a bow!

Time, Stand Still – Hotel Airlines (Part I)

2011-05-30T17:34:00.001+05:30

How do you feel the pulse of a city? Of a generation? The clothes they wear; the universities they go to; the language they speak or, a smorgasbord of all those ingredients.

To me, the pulse lies in the eating-joints and the pubs of the city. Not the glitzy, halogen-lit corner quarters in the central business district, but those joints that are known only by word-of-mouth, and rely on old-fashioned switches to let its patrons see each other upon dusk. If you are in Bangalore, Hotel Airlines would top the priority list of must-visits. There maybe other joints of a similar stature but being a loyalist, I would put Airlines on the top of the heap – its position no different from the mish-mash of the ubiquitous carrot and coriander on a rava idli.

There are two ways to get to Airlines – travel down Lavelle Road from Lady Curzon’s Circle on MG Road, taking the first left as you head towards Vittal Mallya Road. Look out for a stream of cars heading in and out of what looks like a park met a parking lot. All cars are vying for one of two things – the fantastic ice-cream at the original Corner House on the left, or those Masala Dosas on the right from Airlines, for which sane men would commit highway dacoities. The other way is to stand on MG Road and ask the nearest pedestrian “Airlines?” with a vigorous shaking of the hand, thumb held high.

If you’re looking to get a feel of the city’s denizens in one single sitting, like that executive summary you are so used to seeing, Airlines is the place. A digression follows.

I remember being asked to dissect a cockroach as part of class 8, Biology labs. The run-up to the section, which had its fair share of excitement due to Royston, resident bully insisting on funding the entire class’ budget of cockroaches on his own over the weekend, was not something I enjoyed. On the day of Endoskeleton Armageddon, Royston failed to turn up with the required quota. I was glad. The attendant, 15 minutes into the class funded the shortage. Thanks to the attendant, I had a dead cockroach in front of me and a rusting scalpel held tightly between my fingers, behind me.

Me: “I don’t feel like killing it”
Evil Teacher: “It’s dead already”
Me: “I’m a vegetarian”
ET: “I didn’t ask you to eat it”
Me: “Waaaaaaaaaah!!” followed by cockroach tears
ET: profanities I would understand one year later

What’s the point of the digression? The need of the class was to draw the inner organs of Mr. Roach, a cross-section of his body if I may.

A similar cross-section of Hotel Airlines, would yield the following:
(a) Students from the commerce and science colleges nearby – 20-somethings talking loudly and animatedly with colour coordinated clothes and streaky hairstyles. They are the ones that bring the brightness to the place.
(b) Middle-aged crowd discussing domestic matters, internal (to their homes) and internal (to the country). Occasionally they do stray across a topic outside of the country, but are soon cut-to-size by the third demographic – pardesis
(c ) Backpackers and working professionals alike, from outside the country – mud-layered clothes, big packs by the side and smaller ones around the waist, experimenting with the menu. (d) Life-members of the local mafia whose typical conversations go “Cox Town naa paathikre, nee Fraser Town paathiko” (http://translate.google.com/#)
But the group that deserves the biggest mention, the most respect (they command it; no choice on that), and extract the maximum bend out of your back by letting you plead are the Airlines’ waiters. The sitting area is marked out by the waiters with magic lines visible only to them. No waiter shall serve you if you aren’t sitting in his quadrant and if your quadrant’s waiter is on a break of a few minutes, you bloody well wait. A full blog on them will shortly follow. They command that too.

Its where we meet thrice a week; we never get bored; the giant figus tree never stops providing shade; the waiters never stop treating us like 2nd rate citizens and we’ll never stop being grateful to them inspite. In a city fast swallowing itself like a black hole, it offers those few square yards that tell you the city and its citizens are still doing fine. And one day when someone’s concrete dreams come to shatter the calm of those sitting under the giant figus tree, hands will be held. The mafia and an old-timer; the average middle-class Bangalorean and a teenager on his first visit to the place and yours truly will do more than post a blog.

The Neta's Rally

2011-04-21T13:34:00.000+05:30

The day started with business-as-usual - early morning bus to the factory on the outskirts, a quick 30 minute tea session to start proceedings and a fast-paced 15 min walk to cover the canteen-office distance of 300 meters. The meetings proceeded as usual, with us making all the right sounds – grunts to express displeasure, shrieks to express pleasure, oohs and aahs to express pressure and the well placed sigh to display our empathy towards the client’s problems. Communication, they say is 50% body language. And we did make the right moves in that department too, as two ill-meaning well-rounded consultants were meant to.

Morning turned to noon and lunch turned to high tea. Very soon the 6o’clock bus stared at us waiting to take us back on Route No. 5. The morning journey of an hour would take an hour-and-a-half in the evenings we were forewarned. Forewarned is forearmed and I promptly armed myself with 30 minutes of uncustomary sleep in the bus. Traffic in Bangalore, as in any other city with its BMI, displays a form of chaos by dusk. In another hour or so I expected myself to be transported to the CBD. A good pair of summer shorts was the need of the hour – the impending long weekend gave an opportunity to visit Goa. We grabbed it with both hands and such tight vigour that the opportunity felt violated.

Alas, the return journey from office to home wasn’t meant to be such a breeze in the evening hours. The neta had come. Strategically placed at the heart of the city is the Palace Grounds. To be fair, as all consultants are, Palace Grounds was there before the darn city. The neta had decided now was a good time to have one of those rallies. One of those where each participant gets a biryani and a ‘quarter’. They also get transported, with much fanfare from distance places and get paid for visiting - something on the lines of a symposium at the neighbouring Indian Institute of Science. The trouble began many kilometers away. Vehicular traffic piled up for miles away and many times did a traffic light turn from green to red, before it was our turn to pass.

‘We shall ensure there is excellent infrastructure’ he announced, as the bus ran over one more section of nice road to ensure the potholes were evenly spread.

‘Fuel prices shall be brought within reach of the aam aadmi ’ was the next promise from rote, while 300 vehicles idled at the junction, hoping that the next 10 seconds will turn the signal green, saving them the trouble of turning off and restarting the vehicles.

And while the neta stressed on what his party had done for one community of the population, Hindus and Muslims walked along the narrow open drain whose edges doubled-up as a pathway parallel to traffic, warning each other in the dark of impending gaps.

On a high from the ‘quarter’, the neta’s supporters lit fire-crackers. A kaleidoscope of colours rented the skies. Little did they know that those very hands that lit the firecrackers could bring down a regime. It happened in other countries and it could soon happen here, and THEY could be the agents of change. For now though they walked back through the chaos of traffic. Warm biryani awaited them. It was 2 hours and 30 minutes before we made it to our destination.

A Spot Boy’s Account of His First ‘Rape Scene’

2011-03-25T14:38:00.002+05:30

Here's an article I had written a long time ago for a friend's site. Didn't really rake in the moolah but sure did get the attention of one editor looking for writers for a lifestyle magazine. Nothing happened. And to borrow from Douglas Adams, after all these months, nothing continues to happen.

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A Spot Boy’s Account of His First ‘Rape Scene’

A Rape in Three Acts

For 3 generations now, our family has produced eminent spot boys. My grandfather held spot (as the industry calls it) for Nargis when she was in a white and wet saree. My father held spot for Sridevi when she was in a whiter and wetter saree and today I entered Bollywood to do some spotting myself. Waking up and seeing Deepika Padukone’s picture the first thing in the morning brought me a lot of luck. I would advise all spot boys to start the day with her poster. Lucky, because on the first day I got to hold spot for a rape scene. In my world, this is the equivalent of getting a first ball wicket. Ask Nilesh Kulkarni if you don’t believe me!! Now, to describe the exciting day I had.

Act 1:
The scene started with the villain entering the heroine’s sister’s room. I didn’t have to wait for action. Within a few seconds they were exchanging heated words before his eyes landed on her hot body. In spite of his size he quickly jumped over the double-cot towards her. Because of her size, she reacted quickly, reducing the 40V bulb in the table lamp to small pieces, with a deft flick to his head. Very romantic I thought. Those 5 stitches would slow him down. Clearly, all articles in the room were bought on a discount sale. She continued to throw each one at him with a decent accuracy while he continued to chase her with indecency. There reached a point where only the double-cot, the cupboard and the handy ceramic sink were left. Any of them being thrown would have been fatal to him. But alas! The director turned out to be a nice guy. “Cut!” he shouted loudly. She didn’t cut anymore of the villain.

Act 2:
Some of the broken articles were replaced with dignity by me. The heroine’s sister was replaced with much less dignity by a “double” as the director called her. Looking at her, it was clear why he thought she was double – must have been from the Southern parts of the country where weight has weightage I hear. Villain Sir continued to be the athlete he was and soon pinned the double to the double-cot. By now, I was asked to spot only the villain. The glee on his face reminded me of one who had received a chicken biryani in spite of voting for the opposition. In the meanwhile, the “double” exercised her vocal chords like it was time to return it to the creator tomorrow. The entire studio could feel her urge to use a pointed reference to the villain’s mother, sister and immediate family. But she held back with dignity. At this point I heard the director yell “cut” for the second time in the day. The excitement in me was superseded only by the lights I held.

Act 3:
The director and cameraman were very clear on what they wanted me to spot on this time. They said I had to be fast with the spotting. Villain Sir continued to mud-wrestle with the double, while the camera focused on the rest of the room. Quickly the cameraman and I focused on the bangles of the double and the watch of the villain. A second later, I was spotting the table lamp in the corner which had escaped being broken, quickly followed by the table lamp on the floor, which tried getting away in the earlier throwing spree, but couldn’t. The mirror on the cupboard was our next target with the reflection of the characters’ legs being our focus. What creativity from the director I thought to myself. All the while the double continued to call out to the gods, her sister, her sister’s fiancée and anyone who cared to listen. I only wish she knew my name too.

The scene quickly came to an end, as she let out her loudest shriek in sync with the villain’s loudest, lousiest laughter. With a last attack of creativity, the director instructed, that the camera focused on the ceiling fan, the speed of which was quickly being reduced from 3… to 2… to 1… and then turned off completely. Silence prevailed. The director for the last time cried out “Cut”!! The entire crew cheered on a rape well done. With awe, I looked at the director walk away. He had opened my eyes to the one truth of great Bollywood cinema making – Every Bollywood movie needs a brilliant rape. I picked up the broken table lamps with this wisdom in my head.

Tomorrow was going to be a wet saree dance day. I couldn’t wait.
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The Cement Heron

2011-03-08T10:27:00.004+05:30

Settling down in the 20 seater wasn't a comforting thing. A bus with 20 seats has its own charm. It makes you want to look at the running scenery to the right and left of the road, maybe start a conversation on advanced knitting techniques with the elderly lady ahead. Its not the same if the 20 seats are a part of an aircraft one of which you will occupy for the next 2 hours. With those thoughts, I boarded the flight, with 4 others from the team - 3 from the client and one other colleague.

A few freefalls @ 30k feet later, we had arrived at Hubli airport - square feet larger than a 3bhk in Mumbai and a lot more airier. The team tread straight away to the jeeps waiting to take us to our destination, the manufacturing plant. 1.5 hours of driving through amazing roads (newly laid out said the client, and surely not for us) and there we were. From what little we had gathered from our representative within the client team, we understood the person we had our day-long discussions, and 1/5th of the traveling party was not the easiest to handle. A grimace and a quick scratch of the stubble later, I joined the team at the supper table. Cooked by the women from Shirhatti, the village 3 km away, which is also from where 60% of the workforce comes from, the supper was worth a grand banquet. Simple in its approach, yet poetic in nutrition.

Our host, a technocrat in his own right, was one with nature, and as he mentioned, in the earlier days of factory, also two with it through the pond nearby. A small banana plantation defined the outer boundaries of the factory, rather unconventional and certainly an eyebrow-raiser if the eyebrow belonged to an EHS auditor. My colleague, who with the enthusiasm of a 3 yr old faced with the prospect of his second candy, ran into the last room adjoining the paddy fields, quickly bucked out of it. Reason - the host with the most mentioned how bats in the middle of the night, blind as is their wont, tend to knock around the windows of the last guest house. I willed myself into the room, left with no choice than that of the weakest kid in the playground paired with the bully by the monkey-pole.

Technocrat himself deserves a plantation full of praise. The factory, unlikely of a large organization as the one I work for (with?), made up for what it lacked in the form of great manufacturing facilities, with the fantastic bonding with nature - all thanks to T. T had most things barring the bare skeleton of the guest house facility, made out of bamboo. Solar light funded the nightly ration of electricity, and strategically placed bamboo covers around the lights (LED, mind it!), hightlighted the curves of the places, boulders as they were. A pond, 20 feet deep and a 100 feet wide was the destination of most rain water in the vicinity. The morning lights had me up in a jiffy, not because of my excitement towards a new place and a new morning but because I didn't sleep at all that night, down with a massive cold. Like Rudolph on morning duty I strolled out of the room and sat myself by the pond. The caretaker brought me my cuppa and I sat there appreciating the laziness of the pond heron, the ibis and their fellow feathered friends. An SLR would have done great justice but the birds themselves seemed media-shy. I very nearly managed to snap a kingfisher in her out-of-bed look but my 3.1 mp phone-camera was no match to his speed.

What I claimed was a baby-eagle, right above our pond (not in photo)

We forgot our purpose of the visit and when T offered an early morning drive to the 12th century Shiva temple nearby, we jumped onto the bandwagon and into the wagon. 10 km of a country drive, interspersed with T's now echoing "THERE's a pair of hornbills" by Magadi lake, which left the hornbills sour and us broad awake were well covered. Its the only place in India where Shiva and Parvathi appear in a human form, riding their bull Nandi, remarked the priest. He also mentioned that he's a direct descendant of the priest who first performed the rites at the temple in the 12th century. Fascinating stories. T's excitement in showing us the architecture of the temple cost him his footwear. The kids nearby had made a nice walk out of it. One of us remarked how its considered lucky to lose footwear in a temple. T's response that they weren't his had me giving him only 50% of the luck as a consolation for best-effort in being callous - he had parked the footwear at the east side of temple, compared to the standard protocol of the front entrance.

A shot of the 12th century temple, 8 centuries late

Mythical creature with the face of a crocodile and the body of a bull. My references to it as Rhino-san fell on deaf ears

The return and quick change of clothes to business formals, hypocritical as it seemed saw us finishing what was a really long day. Great business-cum-pleasure trip in all. My only regret - not negotiating with T, a stay-on-arrival arrangement even after I disengage with this client and not interacting with enough bats the second night.

PS - I've read somewhere that blogs are dead and passe. Doesn't stop me from writing here. Calling this a revival of the blog is akin to saying the Dutch are back in action in the World Cup - cricket. So let the remarks flow and hopefully, I'll rush back for another write-up, right up

Wedding & Waters

2009-11-19T00:35:00.003+05:30

“Tonty gilometers extra sir” he said. The concept of giving extra-something, never settled well with me in all these years. On other occasions I’d have given it the same treatment a playing captain would have given the ‘extra’ in a game of cricket. But this was a nice bloke. We paid up. Gauri and I had alit from the cab only then. Back from a wonderful trip that saw us being setback in the backwaters by a thousand bucks each.

Minutes before, with frantic waving, I had our driver stop at the atm. He misread my hand movements for a right-turn indication and tried barging into oncoming / onto incoming traffic. Traffic we had been running against and dodging through for the last 150 kms or 3 hours. Slow was the vehicle, led partly by the fact that the driver was sleepier than us. The marriage meal had done wonders to his insomnia. The other reason was the stifling heat on the outside which ensured a warm suffocating breeze got into the car and lulled its passengers, and driver, into an uncomfortable sleep.

The stop at Alleppey town on the way back from Ochira had not helped. Bargaining is an art independent of language or dialect and at Alleppey-on-the-highway we were working on a negotiation for coir mattresses. I had a feeling we won the deal, until the point I saw, in the rear view of my mirror, the owner doing a small stretch of Kathakali on the road. He had my money wad in his hand. If not for Alleppey-on-the-highway, we would have had to take a detour to buy those products. Gauri was adamant on buying them. “Coir products and coconut water” she twisted face. “Convoluted world and face” and I straightened it. She manages the project.
The ritual itself was simple. I’m not sure if KC, a Mumbaikar with Kolkatan roots was aware of the sequence of the ceremony. I vaguely remember bidding him goodbye under the arc lights focused on him while he lunched with the extended in-laws’ family. Between banana payasam and semiya payasam, he had that look, which said he wasn’t sure which part of the ceremony indicated the marriage was solemnized. Tricky business dealing with another culture, let alone marrying someone from it.

Shot from the host's home

Our camera battery worked along with Murphy and right after the first long distance shot of KC in full-attire, it died on us. He made a pretty picture with his wife. A picture matched only by that of the banks of Nedeseri village, across the Pamba river’s backwaters.

A picture of the village

Rowing through those waters, one only wondered if the people on the banks would look up everyday at the river and the backwaters and appreciate its beauty the way Gauri and I did. Serendipity had brought us there. The journey from our hotel to Ochira, where the wedding was, was peppered with conversations. He spoke of every town enroute and of local legends and fanfare. At Chenganeserry before Alleppey, he spoke of his distant uncle (or was it his friend) who lived by the banks. My Malayalam version of ‘maybe not this time’ with the usual waving of the hands, was interpreted as “Uncle, Uncle, please take me to backwaters no!” There he was, the uncle of our driver, waving at us in a way distinctly different from mine. Car parked a few hundred meters away, the last leg to reach Uncle’s house-on-the-banks was by ferry. What a feeling!

The kind uncle who hosted breakfast for us (at a cost)

Boating up to someone’s home is not something I indulge in always. People in Bangalore take offence to such ideas and the roads are not conducive for boating (and riding if I may slip-in). He served us a Kerala breakfast – healthy mix of puttu (rice flour and coconut puddings?), kadala paya (spicy curry made of some cereal I can’t recognize) and milky tea. I had a couple of breakfasts and noticed Gauri slip in 3 puttu-cakes into her travel bag, and that, after having 2 breakfasts herself. We felt like Hobbits packing lembas. And the backwaters, 10 feet of courtyard separating them from our breakfast table, was going to be the river to ride. Uncle’s friend brought home his little boat.

Picking water off the backwaters

At about 20 feet in length and 1.5feet wide it gave us a mild assurance that survival was possible. Once off the banks the “we” changed to “I”. Between the boatman and the two of us passengers, only I could not swim. I could, however, drown with the grace of a heavy stone. The hierarchy of boats, was defined by and defined the status of the families. I wish they realized it still is the same waters they used. Like we land-dwellers use the same roads, pedestrian or Merc-owner.

Gauri on the boat

From being in two minds about going to the wedding alone, to the surprise Gauri sprang on KC by inviting herself to his wedding, was a great change. And I’m glad that, that morning of the wedding, we took the very old Ambassador for our taxi, instead of the bus. The weekend that was… and may never again be. A happy married life to you KC, and thank you for falling in love with a girl from Kerala.

Nanni-goat

2009-11-02T11:16:00.001+05:30

Continuing on my series of interesting people on the project site in Valapad, Kerala. 'Interesting' here may not have the same connotation as Steve Irwin or Mata Hari. But I'm the type to draw a silver line on the window while watching war-clouds outside without any linings (silver or otherwise) of their own.

Staying away from home has never been nicer. And large swathes of those niceties, on this current Kerala trip are thanks to Nanni (prounounced nun-ee). A unique list of all words spoken between her and our team is ‘nanni’, hence the name. It took some trial and a lot of error, to conclude that it was the Malayalam word for ‘Thank you’. Being in a completely new place, I was pretty much thankful for anything given... anything that fell in the list of eats or drinks. And Nanni was the torchbearer of them all. Sugary coffee for the lady and self in the morning hours at office, with its assortment of biscuits, to the collection of cashew nuts and syrupy tea in the second half, Nanni ensures our quota of calories is handled right. We face greater challenges in receiving our quota of data from the client. The replenishment model she has worked out for our eating binges, would rival any manufacturing firm’s. Any better and we might make her an offer to join the team.

It took us some effort to arrive at ‘nanni’ as the appropriate word. A quick reference on social networks for a translation, had me misreading the word as ‘ninne’. For the first few days, my thanking her with what I assumed was the right word, drew stares – uncertain ones initially, awkward ones the second week and towards the end of the ninne’s career as part of my lexicography, angry ones. Those 3 weeks had a phased approach of its own. Serendipity brought home the real meaning of the word – ‘ninne’ meant ‘you’. If I were a heart-warming coffee-cashew bearing person and am greeted with “you!!” twice a day for a job well done, I would have not been happy either. Nanni was no different. It took only one word from the client project manager to her, to take proper care of us, to get her up to speed. The final report shall have her being acknowledged too. Just below the client project manager but well above the chairman.

With a nanni in every project, I would take up any outstation project with little thought. Now, if only my manager would stop accusing me of having other intentions regarding the elderly nanni.

Moonupeedika Times: News aano 2

2009-10-27T00:11:00.002+05:30

Ha! Gotcha on a technicality! Two days, 2 blogs. Minutes either side of 12 00 midnight. So here's the next one already.

SCHUMESH
Rakhi Sawant may not be a veteran in the industry. But think of the time when she had made a grand entry into Bollywood and its peripheries. It was a pop number's video she featured in, playing the role of Slutty Secretary - oval glasses, pencil in mouth, less than half meter cloth. Remember? Remember the curves? Take a couple of seconds.. I'll wait in this corner! Yes, that's precisely how curvy the roads of Kerala are. National, State, District, Taluk or Village Highways - they all have about 20 curves to a kilometre. Part of the Highways Policy they said. And when the roads are that narrow and that windy, rationale indicates that one does not drive a car at more than 80 kmph. That's what you and me would think. Sumesh is not you and the last time I checked, certainly not me.

Sumesh is one of the resident chauffeurs of the dedicated fleet of cars that the client owns / runs / recovers_from_mortgage. He's also one of 'em big town boys - "I've worked in Bombay for a few months" he told us one of those days. And along with the Eastern and Western Expressway memories, he's brought to the tiny hamlet of Valapad, his driving skills. It took us (me and the gentle project manager) a hearty 2 weeks to figure out what lies on either side of the road - the one that leads us from our hotel at Moonapeedikam (translation - '3 shops') to Valapad (translation - 'you are screwed for the next 2 months, so try these banana chips'). On my side of the car, with intent gaze, I observed on the first few days a distinct haze of land in green and brown shoot past me. I checked with the lady who sat to my right in the car; the verdict was clear, she saw the same distinct haze of land in green and brown on her side as well. Such was the speed that he drove at.

Schumesh has earned a great amount of respect in the neighborhood. We've seen random strangers driving much more powerful vehicles (including those that come with some strange "Police" signs) respect him and wave back with a smile on the face. 2 weeks of being chaffeured around later, the eyes started to adjust themselves to the window view. Those blurs, when seen with steely gaze, started to materialze into only slightly more concrete faces. Concrete with fear. And with all those metaphors I begun feeling like a civil engineer. Schumesh has single-handedly responsible for converting all other vehicles into off-roaders. They need to get off the road to survive his speed. But for those few moments (and many kilometers), we simply hold our hands together (I hold mine, and the lady holds hers.. efforts to any other effect have been thwarted, I report) and pray that we make it safe just one more time.

Moonupeedika Times: News aano 1

2009-10-26T23:56:00.005+05:30

3 weeks down and here's a profile of those we interact with on a regular basis. One a day, all of them shall soon be covered. The first one right away..

I AM THE WALRUS
The first impression one has after an interaction with Walrus, is the impression it leaves on the chair. A rounded body, with a smaller, rounder head atop it. The missing 'link'in the image is the one between the body and the head - the neck. The eyes are well guarded by stocky eyebrows and are placed deep in the socket. At those depths, it is difficult for the listener or viewer to discern the direction in which they see and the object they seek. The Walrus has his favourites amongst the project team - and the writer is surely not in the top 2. That, inspite of the team size being only 2!! Its favourite is the manager who comes in every morning, hiding behind me to prevent being spotted and to avoid all conversations. Little luck.. fat chance! The Walrus is greeted with a a hearty "good morning" by me, but it never acknowledges my presence. The regards are conveyed directly to the lady behind me who also is my manager. Occassionally, it wishes her right through me. I do not exist for the Walrus.

As proof, is given below an anecdote. Anecdote -
The lady and self are provided with transport by the office to ferry us to the restaurant and back during lunch hours. Day 12 of the project found the hospitality lacking. The roads, however, were not lacking in autorickshaws. Three waves of the arm later, came an auto towards us. And with it, brings to us the Walrus. It was lurking at the car nearby. Of concern to it was our travelling by auto instead of the office car. All my suggestions that it is fine to travel by auto for such short distances, were dismissed (along with me) by the Walrus. The lady received all attention and was told in a voice stentorian, that she shall always travel by the office car (even if it meant I walk on my knees to the restaurant) or else he will have to act "strictly" with her. She was sent off with a smile while I was dismissed by a show of the Walrus back.

Moonupeedika Times, Page 3

2009-10-21T23:25:00.001+05:30

Dinner is a simple affair for us folks on the project site. “Site” here is a euphemistic reference to Moonupeedika, where we are hosted by the client. To the left of the town is a large swathe of nothingness. On the right is an exciting quantum of nothingness. Sandwiched between all this nothingness is our oasis. Moonupeedika, as we were told by an overtly helpful local, translates to “3 shops”. We aren’t sure how old the town is, but there still are only 3 shops in the town. If forethought was of any consequence, the town founders would have named it Noorupeedika perhaps – 100 shops.

We returned to our oasis, proudly called “Chand ‘V’ Regency” at the regulation time of 8 pm. The single quote surrounding the ‘V’ in the hotel’s name is of much intrigue to me. Were they punning on ‘V’? Does it have a deeper meaning that we folks missed out? On the atrium (20 ft X 20 ft) wall is plastered a rather larger-than-life photo of a gentlemanly looking male form of the human species. I presume the hotel’s legacy and balance sheet stems out of him. My suggestion, as is the want of any consultant’s to offer freely, to place the photo in the attic behind shoe boxes and see a 30% increase in revenue was not taken well by the hotel management. My laundry comes back dirtier than the form it is given in, thanks to the free advice.

Today has been a different evening at the hotel, from the usual sleepiness it carries about itself. The hotel is hosting a birthday party! A birthday party of some sorts I would say. I never would imagine that Moonupeedika could rock ‘n’ roll, and how! The sound spreads across the entire atrium and all other confines of the hotel. The occupant of the frame on the wall seems to smugly enjoy the show. Walking along the corridors, the vibrations in the feet told us clearly that the people partying meant business. Asking the colleague / project manager / friend, to come down for dinner had me saying “l.. llll ee ttt’s ggggo pphor dinner”. Vibrations, I tell you!

The dinner hall has its usual customers. None. The staff of 6 that does the cooking and waiting on the customers go about business as usual. The true effect of the party can be felt here. Its just a few inches of concrete and a false ceiling the size of Mt. Kilimanjaro that separates us from the party people. Songs, an eclectic mix, are being belted out of some very loud speakers. Eclectic because they started off with a Michael Jackson number and shifted gears to a few Malayalam numbers. Before we knew, the partying troupe launched an attack on the latest Hindi numbers – Farhan Akhtar’s Don and Kajol’s comeback vehicle (one tyre short) Fanaa. Then came the surprise – Hotel California. The vibrations in the walls came down by one seismic level and we could hear meaningful sing-alongs drowning the music player. My colleague, one who believes only sea food is real food, found her focus on the fish atleast. All other food items are for the fish to consume and become sea food to her, she believes. I don’t argue much. My project-end appraisal will be carried out by her.

Retro was brought back from the past with a press of a button (or a turn of the table; just couldn’t say). As we walked back to our respective rooms, to the tune of Khaike Paan Banaras wala, there was a flash in the corridor. A photographer. It wasn’t him who flashed but the camera – thankfully! Tomorrow, I shall wake up earlier than usual and run down to fetch the morning Moonupeedika Times. My first page 3 photo, anywhere!

Two weeks down..

2009-10-19T15:03:00.003+05:30

.. and going strong!
I was glad I could get the Diwali weekend at Bangalore. After many a year did I manage to burst a few crackers. Feels just as good stinking up the environment now, as it did then. What's missing is the massive enthusiasm that would build up to a crescendo in the days leading up to the festival. No such enthusiasm. The current approach is a lot more wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am.
A couple of the so called rockets literally back-fired and got into the building we live in. The neighbourhood gave me a couple of dirty glances. I guess they haven't heard of how I can throw "atom bombs" after lighting the wick. They've not heard also, of failing air/space borne missions like Chandraayan.

Returning to Kerala was a little more difficult this time. 2 weeks ago I packed up with gay (i.e. happy) abandon and set off to the airport. This time it was the train station. Meeting up with Sandy, Rolly and Nidhi, Prashanth and Manasi and staying out with them upto 45 mins before the train left was not such a smart idea. Well, it did eventually work out that I made it to the station well within time and caught the train. And here's a photo taken with my cutting-edge technology, hi-def cellphone camera. If you can't see the faces clearly, blame the absence of light in the room and talent in the steward who shot the photo.

:)

Kerala continues to take my breath away. Not much of a sleeper in moving things that I am, I pretty much stayed up all night. Once dawn set in with gusto, the land lit up. Every nook and cranny of Kerala looks fabulous. The train doesn't take you through every nook and cranny though. Loved the architecture of the homes that dot the tracks (some are hardly 4 feet away from the tracks). And nearly all homes seem to have a massive courtyard / garden with a few dozen coconut trees planted in.

Decided, also, to test the local transport system. Inspite of cajoling, attempted convincing and some coercion, I refused to take the auto / cab beyond the bus stand. The bus ride was slightly disappointing since the driver didn't perform any histrionics that my friends mentioned - driving onto pedestrians, over roof-tops, overtaking anything that moves. None of it! A communication problem led me being thrown off the bus about 5kms prior to destination and I had to do the rest by auto. Not bad a trip.

Not really looking forward to this week in office (in Kerala.. definitely) 'coz apparently there's plenty work lined up. I didn't sign up for that.

Jew Town Rap

2009-10-13T19:22:00.007+05:30

From Monday afternoon to Friday morning – time shot by before I could say “manaslayo”. Why would I say “manaslayo”? If you knew the first m of Malayalam, you would understand. We stepped in late into the state and decided to step out early, before the weekend said its customary Hullo. The flight to Hyderabad was well into the afternoon and having all the morning to reach Cochin, we made the most out of it. A couple of wayward stops, once to puttu and once to tea, pretty much pushed our limit to the runway.
We had another 2.5 hours to my flight. The IBM office was in the heart of the city, on the way to Jew Town, conveniently placed for us to check-in our luggage and check-out ourselves. Traffic for a small town like Cochin is still on the high side. Its not like the town has a very high population of vehicles; there must be some Reason lurking around that I couldn’t reason with.
30 minutes or lesser and we were at Jew Town. The “town” as its referred to really is but a few lanes strung together by a spattering of authentic Jews and Jewish shops, a synagogue and plenty of antique shops that sell antiques related to Hindu kings from Kerala and TN largely. Wee bit of a disappointment. When I’m in Jew Town I really would appreciate the Jew Town rap vis-à-vis thappanguchi.

Ignore Tappanguchi and other related dance forms. Here's the god of dance in Jew town.

Its called a Verpu. If any of you know it, please do educate me about the purpose. Very intersting engravings on the outside of it. This, btw, is the largest in the world.

Nothing to do with Jew Town. This photo felt like it could use some publicity !

Minor adjustments… we moved on. Plenty of good photographic opportunities, simply due to the Diaspora of colours that congregate at each place. Loading some of them here. We knew pretty much that the prices would all be inflated and a hard bargain is really called for. Reminded me of “The Merchant of Venice” and the biscuit Bassanio got. We did better than him against his clan-mates – no purchases made! ;)

Torah pyaar Torah magic... said our king to the visitors. :)

The synagogue has a modest architecture compared to even present-day churches or temples – instructions on the board outside suggest that you stay away from the place if you are dressed indecently. About 90% of urban youth won’t be permitted in methinks. The synagogue’s closed on Fridays they wrote, and we read. With time running short, there wasn’t much justice done to the place, which otherwise can take in the better part of a day for one with the eye for antiques – as opposed to an antique eye. Some quick driving and deft flicking of pedestrians into the narrow gutters hinging the road, by our driver, meant that atleast 2 of us were reaching office in time, and cleanly, if I may add. I risked missing the flight by a comfortable 8 odd to 7 even minutes. Not to be. Murphy was on a break and we made it on time. Apparently Murphy was else where, in the flight that I was waiting for. It eventually took off 2 hours late.

A portal to the past.

Looking forward to writing an introductory piece on the people @ on the client side. Nice blokes all, but come with their idiosyncrasies and I hopefully, will not be tarnishing their reputation too much.

Kerala Kronicles

2009-10-08T23:06:00.000+05:30

“Let’s go check out the Beach” . Minutes before the end of day, which largely is in the 530 pm to 630 pm zone in Valappad Standard Time, that was the mantra on our lips. The beach isn’t the easiest of accessible places in upcountry Valappad, further-up-country Thrissur, really-up-the-creek-country Cochin. The autodriver – as luck favoured us tourist-kinds we found one – was willing to take us there. Once off the main road and heading into long stretches of winding narrow residential lanes, we wondered if security had been compromised. Having the driver tell us it’s a safe place and nothing happens here, only added to our stance of being compromised. 3 kms was the distance estimated by the hotel manager - from the hotel to the beach. Clearly, he didn’t realize that we don’t fly as the crow does. Come to think of it, we don’t fly at all. The distance was an easy 7 kms. When the beach stared into our face from between isolated homes and coconut trees huddled up, we still took a few seconds, before the sounds, rather than the visuals in the dark, indicated the presence of … The Arabian Sea… at our feet! What a feeling!

Sea’ing it from the beaches of Goa and Karwar is one thing, call it A. But b’ing at c, from on a beach that’s not visited at all by tourist or tout, gives a different name to the game. Call it B. B is the more rustic country cousin of A, but when it comes to soul, A can go suck on a mollusc. I would say, let it B.

Things couldn’t have improved any more for us on this trip. The path, as mentioned before, winds through heart-warming narrow-lanes, and at a spot where 3 of them met with and met-up with devotion, was this most amazing temple. Barring one neon light in blue, indicating the name of the temple, the rest of it was lit-up using only oil lamps. An atheist would have remarked “my god…” after a brief thought. A believer would have remarked “my god…” but without the atheist’s thought. The idol was difficult to discern through all that fire-lit brilliance and I’m sure one look at the deity would have thrown so much Awesome at us that we’d have renounced all our worldly possessions (colleague’s SLR). A quick enquiry in chaste Tamil led to an elaborate answer in Malayalam. Summary – it’s the 2nd oldest temple in Kerala; its certainly more than 1000 years old; it closes at 730 pm VST and opens at 530 pm VST; jaggery pongal is standard offering to the residing deity, Vishnu. With a massive banana-leaf helping of this prasad, we were overwhelmed with carmic and calorific thoughts. The latter stayed longer. Looking forward to a few more discoveries like this around.

Tomorrow, we’re taking the first of our fly-backs. I’m off to Hyderabad for a wedding – a friend Priyatham’s. He has promised us a good time with his other endearing friends – John, Bud, Fisher and others. With my flight only at late noon, we are going down to Jew Town in Cochin. More from there. I hope they’ve found themselves. Its been more than 40 years now.

Thrissur in Thirty Days

2009-10-05T22:21:00.003+05:30

My profile on the professional front would not be very different from the rest of them in the "IT Generation". Studied in a good engineering college, scored average marks, made it to one of the Indian IT firms, so on and on cliched continuation... so forth. What sets me apart is the geographic footprint that I've worked out.. or to be more specific... haven't worked out. I have never been outside the country, be it the non-visa countries of Nepal, Bhutan et al or the more exotic ones like the Iceland like some of my friends have.
Introductions apart, I pride myself 'coz I have seen a large swathe of our own country, and am sure that there isn't much that the world has to offer than the diversity that we have back home. Dialects changing every 400 km - tough to beat! Nearer home and yet the elusive one in my list was Kerala. And now, thanks to Manappuram Finance, I now have a chance to be in Kerala.
I thought its not such a bad idea to talk about a first-timer's view of God's own country.
For starter's, the sobriquet is inappropriate. Flying into Cochin's airport with a sharp turn, in an aircraft that doesn't give one much confidence (its about the size of a minivan and let's out exhaust like one too), if I were God (pretty close... I'm a consultant), I would remark "That's my own 18 hole Greg Norman designed golf course!". The view is fantastic - trees everywhere... and green the color of the state. Too bad the reds have their strongholds there I thought, after realizing I'm not God.
So the place I'm working at is called Valappad. Thrissur was the name initially suggested and in a quick during-the-flight trick from the project manager, the location was moved about 25 kms (rougly 35 mins of death-defying driving by maniac lungi-toting drivers) from there. Interesting none the less, with a client who promises to not be to aggressive (you meet the ded-loins, no mayter au you do it) and a project manager who promises to be more entertaining with conversations than pressuring. A long walk in the evening to discover the local fanfare led to this - Naaz Bakery, Byju Wine Stores, Another_Naaz Bakery, Another_Byju Wine Stores.... it goes on! There's just one road throughout the town and life pretty much settles around it. What also surprised us (me and project manager referred to earlier) was the continuity in the small towns. There's no no-man's land in between two towns. Seamless Integration at its best.
We finished off with some very pleasant dinner, sea food being the priority on the table thanks to the squid loving manager. Desserts was picked up at one of Naaz' Bakeries - coconut oil based Bombay Halwa. Seamless Integration to National Integrity was an easy jump.
Looking forward to exploring a bit of Kerala for myself, probably ride down the next time I'm on a flyback on the Bullet.

Write here, Write now!

2009-06-30T13:40:00.002+05:30

Its been so long since I've posted anything on this site, that I tend to forget it exists. I used to be passionate about writing on this blog and have now moved this passion into a longer format of writing. Got a long way before any product comes out of the new format, considering it takes so much of my effort - time and emotional.

I've realized now that its vastly different to write a couple of pieces about a particular topic and get done with it, vis-a-vis writing on a single topic with multiple characters, spreading it over many pages and hours. But the effort continues to go in and I'm hoping that some day it'll see the light of the day. Atleast, I'll have the satisfaction of having made an effort. If Rome can't be built in a day, throw in a per diem and a few more weeks with sufficient skilled labour, and a decent architecture will be delivered. Good enough for old J.C. to appreciate or Nero to fiddle with, only time will tell. And so will JC.

I've managed with some effort also, to run a little more than 10 kilometers in one single session. I guess I've made a mention of that uncorroborated fact in as many forums as I can. And I still can't get enough. The reasons are two fold - for someone who is on the journey to very high fitness levels, it means a lot and defines a certain milestone on the ardous yet exhilirating journey. The joy of seeing the treadmill indicator turning 10.000 is unexplainable and can lead to one letting out a silent "hurray" from the oral cavity, hands thrust in air vertically and losing balance due to the act. The other reason why it excites me is to do with my confidence levels. Its not a commodity I carry around in excess, very specifically in certain areas like physical fitness. So seeing myself run 10 km (wall-to-wall mirror placed on the left) in an hour and 15 minutes, and knowing that some of my fitter friends have taken about the same time, does wonders to my confidence.

This is my second attempt at long-term fitness, the first being executed when I was in Hyderabad. I have written about the previous experience in earlier posts including sufficient detail about the characters I met there. My current fitness center, though not having as many patrons as the previous one, makes up in the portfolio of patrons. We have 200 pound aunties leaving massive sweat stains the shape of a double-O when they sit down on the stools we use for workout, 80 pound girls assuming that they are size 0 and a host of individuals whose daily fitness-roster form reads "want to make 6 pack" in the "objective" section. (For the record, my "objective" was to "lose 8 - 10 kgs".

Maybe some day, time permitting, I will write about all these characters and my interaction with them. Interaction needn't always be personal and in fitness centers I can vouch that its largely the interaction of sweat molecules.

I'm writing this blog at a whim with no plan in mind. Not that it would make a big difference to the outcome (confidence, was I saying?). By their very nature, blogs have to be either informative or entertaining. This one is neither. Its completely personal and at this instant, the blog is my sounding board on a public forum. Nothing beyond it.

On an off-note, news of MJ's passing away, I gather, has revived a big interest in his music (was it ever gone?). I'm wondering which other artist will be able to make an impact as big as this one, if he were to pass away (not that I want them to). Dylan, I'm guessing. But then again, I'm an ardent follower of his music and hence could be prejudiced. A song from his '63 album, "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" follows - Don't Think Twice, Its Alright.

Back to tripping on it...

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don’t know by now
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It never do, somehow
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never done before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

Lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
Goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

Sweet September

2008-01-03T16:41:00.000+05:30

Vivo Montgomery was not a strong-hearted person. He was told by all and sundry that the race wasn’t going to be easy. The distance wasn’t a short one. Many had trained for days-on-end to stay fit for the competition. Raleigh Montgomery had gone to the extent of trying hypnosis to commit himself to victory. In the run upto the race, many could hear Raleigh M.’s room emitting midnight sounds of “I won, I won… sweet September!”

With the kind of prize in the offing, as declared over dinner by their master, Vivo knew that the competition would be stiff. His very life was ruled by this stiffness, just like that of his siblings. The times were tough. The economy was going through a depression, a depression that percolated to the people on the streets, the bedrooms of mansions, the stray mongrels in the lanes scraping the last of leftovers and the hawks that spread their wings over the fish market at the coast. They were starved for a victory for over a six-month period now. The problems were infinite, the causes for starvation, numerous. A bunch that was always united and at the command of the head of the home, the Montgomerys could get really competitive when it came to the individual. “To Each Himself” was the motto that had been passed on to them through the ages. And with the large brood of Montgomerys, a trait the family carried through generations, the motto was being pushed to its outer limits, stretched until it would change and metamorphose itself into a new breed of competitive instincts.

The race schedule had not been finalized. Some of the smaller, yet, nagging issues needed to be sorted out. An hour, maybe two… or maybe a day, were the rumors being spread around. Patience wearing thin and uncertain about how long they could sustain themselves with these rigors, the Montgomerys were a worried lot.

Two days later, with the lights dimming down and the ravens in the field heading back east, the time arrived. It was the first day of the New Year. Their master gave them the final nod in one reproachful look. He asked them to perform and perform well. Glory was to belong to he who won the race. They put on their racing shoes. Like true marathoners out on a run, they had all lined up behind each other with no set pattern. The first few yards wouldn’t matter, they knew. The fun and exhaustion would kick in only half way through. Only the toughest would last. With the sounding of the gun, they were off. Vivo stuck to his strategy. Let them go forward, he would retain his stamina for the last by which time he knew the rest would have fallen by the wayside… his siblings… unable to complete the tough drill.

Coming to the last of the turns, he could see that apart from him, there was to be some stiff competition from Raleigh. The hypnosis idea worked well. Raleigh almost ran in a trance Vivo thought. Only a man possessed could do something like that. There were others in the fray too. Vivo pulled on the last of his reserves as he saw the finish line. The prize would be his if he could hold on. This was the moment of glory his master had told him. He made a mad dash to the finish line. Meek as he was, Vivo knew he had it in him. Going head-to-head in the last few yards, Vivo found an unbelievable strength guiding him. The vapors emanating from the ground as they stomped it brought newer energy to every sinewy part he possessed. With a final thrust of the head, he completed the race… just ahead of the rest of the pack. The day was his. Only then could he see the grand prize… a cause for suspense and restlessness all these days, it stood there – perfectly oval, shiny and much larger than him. He plunged into his prize with joy, gratitude and tears. His master was right - Glory was his! The New Year had begun on a great note for him.

On the 28^th of August that year, the Montgomery couple was blessed with a son. The child in the master's arms seemed to be tinier and weaker than the other new-borns. They named him Vivian Montgomery in honor of the saint who shared the birth date and one other important reason the master could not recall. Whatever it was, the new-born seemed to respond well to the shortened version of the name – “Vivo”.

Who Laughs Last!

2007-12-20T19:59:00.000+05:30

It happened around the time the Dal Makhani was brought in. The joke being told was not the kind that deserved intense laughter – atleast not the heart-and-maybe-a-foot-below intensity it held. Having been a passive observer of these traits for some time, I realized what that laughter was even before the Dal was completely served – and in clichéd wisdom remarked to myself – “Dal mein kuch kaala hai”.

Every career brings with it, its idiosyncrasies (every career is a carrier of its idiosyncrasies, anyone! :-) ). Mind it – I’m not talking of a person but a career. Here’s an example – A fireman’s favourite joke (notice reference to gender) will be about his hose being longer than his colleague’s… like that!

Here I write about an idiosyncrasy of a life-time member from the consultancy career – The Consultant’s Laugh! On many occasions our ilk faces situations where clients or fellow consultants need to be appreciated and humored. If you won’t take my word for it, try getting 3 years sales data split month-wise from a client. Pressurize him enough to give you the data and see if his CV won’t appear on Monster.com within a week. In such situations, a little appreciation and humoring is not seen as out of place. It’s termed ‘client-relationship’. There are other easier ways by which as a consultant, one can keep the client and others around in good spirits. Some of these methods involve a 2 year prison-stint and/or a 5000 buck fine. Hence, they will not be written about.

The Laugh is not something one is born with. Like the other great things about a person – leadership, courage, smelly arm-pits and flatulence – it’s an acquired trait. And one that is acquired with a lot of dedication. The Laugh is not made explicit or explained when one joins this line of work. Very much like the bonus-calculation mechanism. And one fine day, if you survive the “induction” where one particular department tests your ability to stay awake under the influence of chloroform, one hears it. Sometimes a hollow sound, like when you open the tap of an empty beer barrel, sometimes full and flowing, like when you open the tap of a loaded beer barrel and sometimes silent and inconspicuous like when you open the tap of no beer barrel. The Consultant’s Laugh!

One can trust the quality of the consultant’s work, based purely on the quality of The Laugh he generates. The more annoying and fake it gets the more certain of the recommendations being a ppt lifted from the company’s archives. Any signs of The Laugh being genuine and one can be sure there is some very good data analysis done before referring to company archives for recommendations.

With a year-and-a-half neatly tucked behind, time and other-wise, it was fairly recently that I realized The Laugh hiding in me. All original and I’ve also been practicing hard using the mirrors in the rest room (only now realizing why some of my colleagues are avoiding me lately). It ain’t too hard to discover the gift one has. Go on… give it some thinking over the weekend and flourish and aim for that career shift!

Bite the Bullet

2007-12-17T17:33:00.000+05:30

The last two months have been trying! The project having gotten underway, it prevented me and my team from doing anything but that which consultants do - namely, ask for data, reject data given to us, sulk behind the client, clean the data over 70% of the period of the project, (filtering through xl does it well I've realized, though a colleague discovered an easier and more assured way using a P & G product; he refuses to divulge further information and needless to say, was assigned most of the cleaning), build wonderful models using xl sheets and give them names like "Return of the Mother - X-series - V1.1.xls".

In a desperate attempt to discover/invent silver-linings for ourselves in those bleak times, we ran up a very good bill at the local condiments store (being Mallu, he has a wonderful take on diversification and sells tea, tea estates in Darjeeling, low-cost labor for tea estates in Darjeeling, filter coffee, coffee filters and cycle chains). The silver-lining was quick to be seen, when he told us our daily bills. It appeared as a multi-Z shaped cloud right above the head when paying up and some wonderful reverse peristalsis on a jam bun.

That's not all the silver-lining I could bring up. On a personal front, I realized a long-held wish and a near-impossible hope. I bought the Thunderbird that I so much wanted. A-haa, not an old one, but a new one that depleted my savings account like a Las Vegas casino might when dealing with a bad hand at the cards. 'Near-impossible', I use the phrase due to the kind of pressure folks @ home put on me.

"Minimum mileage should be 65kmpl" said Dad.
"Should the vehicle run on water or is milk good enough?" came my reply.

"Its a very heavy bike!" said Mom.
" ". I didn't have to say anything. With arms outstretched I let her take in my complete picture and she quickly figured out where all the butter dosas she made went.

A week after the purchase I fuelled up. I filled myself up with 3 litres of trepidation at the first intimidating traffic junction and headed out to the nearest Ganesha temple. In these days of reckless riding, nothing like some help from upstairs I thought. Parked beside the temple and awaiting the coconut-breaking ceremony was a Pulsar (due regards to the Bajaj family and their pet peeves). The vehicles seemed to have a sense of competition between themselves and I could distinctly feel a rumble from my bike, which told me that it wanted the Pulsar for breakfast and if left over, a brunch! (minutes later I realized the sound was due to the fuel levels having reached reserve and me not acknowledging the fact).

With some clear hand-signs I interrupted the priest's hymns and made it clear that coconuts needn't be broken on bikes for blessings and the road was built for just that purpose. Having settled accounts with Priest Sir, God sir and a pantheon of other god-fathers and god-mothers, I set out to fuel the bike.

It was here that the first of the acknowledgements from society dropped by. Though the bike is very personal, nothing like a bit of Maslow's higher layers pitching in to make one feel good. Fellow-rider of a Bullet started his bike a short distance away. I glanced in that direction without giving it a thought. Bullet-man before taking off, raised his hand in my direction with a leather-gloved thums-up sign. A silent nod of his head later (a vertical nod, indicating respect and approval, not the horizontal one, which indicates non-approval and flies around the head) he went his way. Tough men don't smile I said to myself. I looked at the mirror of my bike and smirked hard instead. With a thumping kick to the start, I rode back home.

The Grapes Were Sour

2007-10-28T10:32:00.000+05:30

Read the blog below about auto-drivers in Bangalore? If you’ve read it, thank you! If you haven’t, kindly do and then accept heartfelt thanks (ladies stand in front of queue). If you don’t want to read it – that’s alright too – now, that I’ve written it, neither do I. What I’ve written in the current piece draws a wee bit from what I’ve written below. A sequel if you may call it one – hence, the request to read the earlier blog.

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With the arrival of the end of my bus-travel days, I looked forward to getting a 2-wheeler. Small thing now, but back in those days, to a guy like me it was as important as a color photo of Silk Smitha. Fate, however, made a quick move on me and sent me off from the city, moving the bike out of the picture. The closest analogy for this kind of disappointment, involves waiting in the movie ticket queue for about 30 patient minutes. With 3 people left, they announce that the last 20 tickets will be sold outside in black by the guy wearing red, on a highest-bidder basis. Multiplexes don’t do that, but try a Tamil or Telugu movie release on a weekend.

For all those intermittent visits to the city, the mode of transport forced upon me, was the humble autorickshaw - ‘humble’ being a reference to my state after being fleeced.

Only recently did Lady Luck smile again and put me back where I do belong – Bangalore. And not in Aruba, as lone touch-up fellow for the Pirelli calendar models… that’s where I would like to belong. I knowwww… its only semantics! On knowing with certainty that I would be in Bangalore for atleast 3 months, my first need was to change the mode of transport. A car was more of a luxury and less utilitarian I felt, like wearing golden jocks! It had to wait its time. It was back to square one. Plans from the earlier years were taken out and the dust covering them blown away.

Deciding to buy a bike was as easy as provoking Andrew Symonds in India. The difficulty was in deciding which one should be bought – how should we provoke Symonds - and therein lies the essence of this current piece.

Its time now to introduce a friend of mine – friend, philosopher and misguide – Manoj Bhat. A senior from college, Manoj in most aspects represents a typical MBA. Which means, he believes he’s either over-worked or underpaid and on Monday mornings, both. There are however, other aspects in which he doesn’t subscribe to the norms. His choice of leisure activities, for starters! Manoj is an endurance runner and most of his leisure time is spent training for the full-marathon. He is the kind who will run 20 kms in a matter of 2 hours and call it a warm-up. I on the contrary, would use a more scientific term to it – evaporation.

Also different or atleast not common-place is what he rides – A Thunderbird from the Royal Enfield stable. One may want to argue that it isn’t the greatest choice of a bike for city roads. “Why, a Pulsar or even a Splendor is far better for acceleration!” you may say. After half-a-dozen whiskey shots later you may even pick the gall to add “A TVS 50 or a Luna is more value for money!” I wouldn’t disagree with the former or the latter – more so with the latter because in principle, I don’t argue with anyone who has that much of alcohol in the body. All said and done, big bikes have a great appeal about them.

Paape’s Jawa was my first interaction with a member of the big-bike club. This was in 1998 when Pulsars were still restricted to the Physics syllabus. He would politely let me handle it from the bike-stand inside the college to the first junction we came across and when he was of a generous disposition, even further. A grand 200 meters it was. I even got to wipe the dust of its covers everyday, I remember. In return, I would ward off any attempts by the junior girls to play the role of Pillion on his bike. A very good friend I make. Loyalty is the key here… that and a mean look when any girl tried to capture the pillion seat. I would fight away the need to get onto a bus as much as I could. And if it meant my close friend would have to remain single and unable to mingle for 4 years – only fair, I thought.

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In the run up to the final decision, I was faced with two front-running options - the Bullet always held an appeal, but as a practical choice, the Activa seemed to make sense. Unable to conclude, I checked with some friends.

“An Activa is perfect for city roads; solid pick-up…yes, picking up girls also…. Yes... petrol and charm are both needed”

“Bullet – mileage and maintenance – not so easy. No spare parts easily available!”

“You got just one life Suri, go for it! You’ve always liked big bikes… remember the Jawa?”

“You’ve never owned a bike earlier, the Bullet will be too much to handle.”

Arguments were shot back and forth, all with the intent of easing the selection process. I gave it deep thought for nearly 3 days and an equal number of nights… By the morning of the fourth day, it was all over.

The winner was clear. The Bullet it was! If I ever convinced myself that the Activa was a better choice than the Bullet, I would do so because the grapes were sour and not because I genuinely felt that way about the Activa.

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Having made the choice a quick check of the price list of the models at the nearby showroom was made. One lakh Rupees was the general figure. With my savings I could easily purchase the helmet and a mud-guard; with a kidney thrown in I guess the complete bike would be at buying length. Deciding to retain my body intact, I did the next best thing – approach Manoj and check if the biking club he rode with had any used-bikes up for sale.

A day passed by… then another! By the third day restlessness stepped into the picture and I cold-called Manoj. For all of my luck there was one, he said. A Thunderbird for 50K; the owner was abroad and wouldn’t return for a few years atleast. I could check the bike out anytime I wanted. This was it I knew. My bike was waiting for me somewhere. But I was unable to convince the owner for a 2 day warm-up period on the bike. Manoj stepped in again! He suggested a ride to Hoskote on his own Thunderbird, to figure out if I can handle it. At 11 in the morning on a Saturday we met up. I sat on a Royal Enfield, as a rider, for the first time and worked the gears. All smooth! The ride had begun. Power from the engine reached the wheels with precision. By the time we covered a few kilometers, I was convinced.

6 hours later I was back on my own. All that was there was to arrive at a fair price for the bike on sale and get to the haggling part with its owner. A short test ride to a mechanic and a phone call to the showroom later, the price was clear – 50K was on the higher side. The recommended price was 40K. “Five thousand rupees jaasthi for frensip” said the mechanic with a smile that was short of a few teeth. The mech gets his friends for dirt cheap I second guessed.

Within hours, the mail from me must have reached Manoj’s friend – the owner of the bike. 40K was what I was willing to give. It was only a matter of time before we arrived at some conclusion and with that feeling I relaxed. 2 days later the response wasn’t still there. The mail could have been wrongly recognized as spam; he may not have found time to read it – the possibilities were large.

Things couldn’t wait any further at my end. I called his folks in Mysore. It was 12 pm, on a Wednesday that was already loaded with work.

“Aunty, I checked with the mechanic. He said 50K was too high and 40K was a good price. Even the showroom person says the same. I’m fine upto 45K but nothing above that aunty… and yes, I’m also in a hurry to get done with this… before Dussehra goes by for sure… Oh! OK… that’s great to know… pretty good price too… What’s his name? That’s fine… Thanks a lot anyways aunty!”

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A few minutes later, some friends and I marched up to get lunch at the office canteen. I felt heavy and settled down for a fruit salad - an unholy mess of banana, shredded oranges and apple pieces, all mixed with honey and topped with a lot of grapes. “So when are you getting that Thunderbird” asked one of the colleagues. “Weren’t you supposed to know the final price yesterday itself”, he continued.

“Thunderbird? It’s not such a great bike” I remarked, while shoving some of the fruit mix into my mouth. “I’m buying the Honda Activa, its certainly the better one for me."

And as I chewed on the salad, I could feel the grapes.... the grapes.... were sour!

Autodrivers of Bangalore - Second half (or) The Journey Not-completed

2007-10-01T14:59:00.001+05:30

For the first half of the journey, kindly refer to the blog below this one

What amuses me most is the versatility with which the average Bangalore autodriver has arrived at this juncture – from being a mere con-artist to one who can nudge bigwigs out of the Interpol’s red corner list; from being fluent only in one language – abusive, to being able to swear in 6 – he has come a long path. And if he throws one quick glance around and looks at the path… he’ll realize it’s the wrong side of a one-way road.

I will take you, my dear reader, on a ride with one of these autos. The ride itself may be uneventful, but there is plenty to cover before and after it. See if you can get some learning out of this and apply it in Bangalore or in your own city if there is a fit.

The pain in the backseat starts seconds before you get into the auto. A potential traveler, with hope in eye and good coffee and sweet wife waiting at home, approaching an auto driver will get the following treatment –

Let’s assume the pedestrian can speak Bangalore’s version of Kannada

Passenger: “Bartheera!” (Translation – “Comingaaa!”)
Auto Driver: “Yellige!” (Translation – “Where to?”)
Passenger: “Koramangala” (Translation – “Koramangala”)
Auto Driver: “Tch!” (Translation – “Tch!”)

Other travelers, heading out in any of the other three directions, will meet the same fate. You conclude that that auto drivers have got into market research - using cluster analysis to figure out where citizens would like to travel most - and have quit their natural-born instincts of transporting people around.

Let’s assume that Shukra and Shani in the potential passenger’s zodiac for the week are in the right position. They aren’t upto any of their usual tricks and are rather co-operative. This translates to the potential passenger finding an autodriver who is willing to transport him to the chosen destination. Now, he needs to face the next level of the game – the “Put something on the meter and give no!” syndrome. Here’s how it works…

No driver in his normal senses is willing to go by the meter. There always is a need to ask the traveler to “put something on the meter” and pay them. Being a veteran at receiving such requests from those tough souls, I suggested to one of them, a banana for the putting. The humor not only failed to register but was greeted with the look of a lion being told it had to go on the Atkins’ diet.

Convince the autodriver that you need to be taken for a ride and he might agree, but only on the outside. Deep inside, he has worked out the figurative meaning of “being taken for ride” and will scheme and plot like he’s the white-sari protagonist in a Ramsay movie. At that most crucial V junction in the road ahead, while leading you to believe that the Indian team did win the T20 and that he is indeed going to take the right of the fork as you wanted, he will take a cruel left. Your yelling at him for taking the wrong route will bring out the Socrates in him, convincing you with skewed logic that this route is indeed the shorter one and that all roads lead to the same destination (hence the adage – “All roads lead to roam”).

Of late, I have in my experiments with autorickshaws (read not much between the lines… the experiments are straight and have the SPCA’s approval), figured out that the auto’s wires snap when there are pretty women on the road or when a juicy junction in a busy part of the city is looming large. “Wire cut”, he will proclaim with gusto and a smile, as though that was your most anticipated event for the year since your great aunt infected you with common cold in mid-summer mango season. He will then go onto charge the full amount as shown by the faulty meter, along with whatever you can put on it. Just when you are out of sight, the meter in a pang of guilt will fix itself up and be ready for the hot chick from the north-east who is showing her legs a.k.a Yana Gupta in babuji zara dheere chal. I did try emulating them on one such desperate occasion; the results if memory serves me right, weren’t the same – the post-legging scene also, if I remember, involved a cop, some more autorickshaw drivers and women screaming and running into the front of moving buses. One is always left with the after-thought that he should have given the autodriver a nice kick between his legs and scream “banana split” in Mandarin before running.

A special mention also needs to be made of my friend Varun Veernala. Notice two things about the name – there is bravery spelt out clearly in the surname and there is no hint that he is connected to the Nizam of Hyderabad. When you pluck VV from Pecos and put him in front of any of our friendly autodrivers, both the observations, mentioned at the start of the para will go kaput. The bravery in his name quickly gets replaced with wetness in trousers and all autodrivers will immediately believe he is related to royalty. For the shortest of rides (and on one occasion, just for touching the autorickshaw), the drivers, on looking at VV will say “120”, “100” or the thereabouts. The auto unions have all passed decrees – the actor Ambareesh is our idol and no one shall charge Varun Veernala less than 100 for any ride. Great unity these auto drivers have.

So there! All I had to say about the drivers of Bangalore’s three-wheeled monsters. I do realize that I may not have touched all aspects. For example, his kindness in running over only one school kid when there is potential for three; his penchant for blowing cigarette smoke when the Miss inside is asthmatic – just to name a couple. After all, it is difficult to mention in one piece of writing, all that an auto-driver can do to you, without outraging modesty or referring to your lineage. I also choose to not make it completely exhaustive, so that the reader may pitch in with his views. No word limits. One nice compilation later, I can visit the auto-drivers union at Rajajinagar, and make my presentation. Let’s see if they will charge me one-and-a-half on the meter on my return journey from there. I dare them! And if I don’t blog within another week, you’ll know where to find me… please bring enough money.

Autodrivers of Bangalore - First half of the Journey

2007-09-27T20:38:00.000+05:30

The predicament began in early 2003. Having spent 2 decades in Bangalore and having graduated from here, the grass didn’t really look greener on the other side. Add to it, I had mooed away from many a bovine tendency and grass didn’t mean the same thing to me as it did to the fauna of Serengeti or the sadhus of Varanasi.

What I had looked forward to, after graduation, was a pleasant life centered around Bangalore, run for mayor by the time I’m 30, win by 35 and start making my quick-buck. By then I was sure “Greasing of the palms” would have received a small-scale industry status and being a fledgling industry, atleast legally, would be entitled to a tax break. A couple of wives to go with – belonging to the neighbors, frequent presence in the crime beat of the city and life would be set.

With such long-term plans for a stay in Bangalore made, I decided it was time to head to a better way of traveling within the city. For years it was my legs that served as the mode of transport. And when faced with stray mongrels, they doubled up as a mode of communication too. The rear of many a mongrel did meet my feet. But with the advent of the mid-school-life crisis (8^th standard as I refer to it), there was a strong need to match the classmates. Peer pressure came in easy-to-use packages even in those days and were available in all classes, near the canteen, at the playground and in the Monday morning assembly. Convenient! I had to get a cycle. Soon!

One fine day, well ahead of the Christmas holidays I did get my cycle. Folks at home had surprised me with a Hero Ranger – one of those rugged ATB (“Any Time Bxxxx” is what my friends told me) thingies that would ensure looks from St. Francis Xavier’s Girls High (7^th standards). From being foot-soldier I had progressed to the next best thing on wheels at that age.

By engineering I had learnt how to flash_bus-pass while holding onto dear life on the footboard. Many a bus-stop did I see in those years and many a girl did I observe being picked up by men on bikes. The heart craved for one (A bike I mean, girls weren’t priority then and seem to be out-of-syllabus now). 4 years of journeying by bus and I had decided the first salary would go for the down-payment of a bike. The Little Sisters of Charity would have to wait a little longer.

So far so good! Plans were clear-cut and had there been quick access to a computer I could have even given my reasons to the Little Sisters, in ppt format.

However, the clichéd twist-in-story wasn’t far off. Separation from the city emerged within a couple of months after college. Wanderlust set in on its own accord and there was no stopping him. From Bangalore to Mangalore on the west coast; from the west coast to the east coast to adorn Bhubaneshwar and then the plains of the north at Lucknow. My constant companions through all these cities were the urge for a bike and the inability at remembering if Chhak or Chowk was how they referred to a traffic junction in that city. Visits to Bangalore were getting shorter and when in the city I needed a quicker mode of transport than feet or buses. Averaging out the two-wheel drives I wanted and the four-wheeled vehicles of the more fat-walleted, I arrived at the three-wheeled autorickshaw.

Talk about digressing from a topic. Reminds me of a professor who went onto explain why windows shudder when planes fly-by. If memory serves right, it was debit-credit and a P & L statement that he wanted to talk about.

The intent of this piece is to talk about the auto drivers in Bangalore – my chosen mode of transport in the past few months … and how! Heck, nothing like an overdone introduction. Sometimes the foreplay is more fun than the act I think. On that note, let me stop here… my thoughts about the Autodrivers of Bangalore (“Man-eaters of Kumaon” feeling to it heh?) in the next blog.

Khaindly waiting pliss….