Toska

Another airport, another city, another country. Same old feeling. Restlessness and wistfulness mixed with a longing with nothing to long for. It feels strange yet calming. She gets lost once again in the human cacophony and the mundane soundtrack of other people's lives. 

Two cups of filter coffee, a boring afternoon and a laptop was all that took two women to decide to ride out of the city over the weekend. Rach and I packed our bags and headed out to Kodai. We didn’t want to drive down and neither have patience to manage a hired chauffer. So bus it was. The adventure began even before we could leave Bangalore. It was a rainy evening and the cab did not turn up to take us to the bus station. The poor autorichshaw driver dealt with two cranky women with much aplomb. We reach the bus station only to be informed that the bus will arrive after half hour from then. So we brave the chill winds blowing though the open bus shed on a late evening and wait. Finally, we board the bus and realize the seats are not as we had desired, the bus conductor has a penchant for ignoring any request, the driver loves loud conversations while driving and the inhouse TV only plays Golmaal 3. Swalpa adjust maadi. We try to adjust as best we could and prepare for a sleepless, backbreaking night. The rest of the night was less said the better. At day break the next day, we had reached the hills of Kodai. The thin drizzle and the lush green slopes made it all worth it. We had decided to book a homestay instead of a regular hotel. From whatever we could gather from the net, it seemed to be a comfortable abode with friendly hosts.

On reaching Kodai, we call our host who had agreed to pick us up from the bus station. We meet Bala, our host and he takes us to his home, Cinnabar, on the quieter part of town, on Chettiar Road. There we meet his wife, the vivacious Vasu. With the casual pleasantries over, I only looked forward to a clean loo and to change out of my crumpled clothes. Only a shower and a change can make us feel human again after the nightmarish bus ride. The guest rooms are away from the main house and allows for adequate privacy. The room we were given, was warm, inviting and comfortable. Wooden floor, slanted roof, terracotta floor in the bathroom – clean, functional with a touch of rustic. Everything inside the room had a personal touch right from the patchwork bedspread, the sundried towels, mishmash artefacts to the coffee table books. This felt so much like home. Over breakfast in their cosy dining room, we heard how everything on the table is produced in their organic farm – the spreads, the granola, the cheese, the herbs and the fruits. The bread is oven fresh too! During lean season, the duo runs cooking classes since both are passionate about organic cooking from local resources. With wholesome food in our tummies it was time to explore the town.

So we head out with our host Bala, who was heading to town anyway. Sweetly, Vasu had drawn out a mini map of the hub with all places of interest. For two women that would mean – shopping hotspots and eateries. We assured her that we are not the touristy types who are here to see the waterfalls and the likes. Map in hand we hit the market area. Five minutes into the sojourn, we get invited to coffee at a cafe (a cafe chain I happen to work for) by two local men in strange clothes and one wearing a Stetson. We politely refuse and move on. We do the rounds of local shops supporting developmental causes – one of them is the Re Gift Shop. Looks like a lot of interesting people have settled in this hill town and doing their bit for the rural economy. One would have missed the history of the people if one was just there for the scenic spots.

We are charmed by a local villager, Gauriamma at a cafe names Potluck, perched on a narrow ledge on PT Road. She makes these amazing pancakes and a bright cuppa of cappuccino. She even takes the liberty to suggest honey over maple syrup as a spread for the pancakes. Who would have expected to be served in Ikea cutlery at a quaint old town in the hills. But such is the charm of Kodai. We visit the local haunts – Re (the gift shop), Potters Shed (where an old man sells local rough finished pottery), Econut (the store that sells health food and non-egg muffins), Shalimar (the shawl store run by a Kashmiri gent who is now lived here for generations), Pastry Corner (the local bake shop). We decided to have a vegetarian lunch at a place called Tava, where they were so generous with chillies and pepper that it was a big turn off. Being a Friday, not many tourists abound. Only the famous Kodai International School has its young students roaming around the streets giggling and doing things young things do. We finally head home to Cinnabar with tired feet and charged minds. Evening was filled with fresh coffee, some vodka and many a tale from far and near. It was no different from gathering at a friend’s home on a lazy weekend and sharing the warmth of the wooden fire in the living room. The dinner spread was continental with garden fresh greens in salad, the meat tender and the corn bread well textured. But the home-made cheesecake was the scene stealer of the night. Filled to the brim, we say our goodnights and head to our room only to find it wasn’t easy to fall asleep with my mind jostling with images and experience of a new place. The comforter was warm and the night passed in silence.

The next morning, we got up late and lazed over breakfast. If one is staying for a long time, the breakfast spread might get a bit repetitive. I am not complaining though, since I like some semblance of familiarity every morning. I have no appetite for experimenting right in the morning. We get dressed to go into town once breakfast was done and Vasu graciously gives us a ride to the seven road junction at the heart of town. We ambled about without much of an agenda and ended up shopping some more. We tried a new eatery called Cloud Street. Avoidable completely just in case someone gets inspired reading about my sojourn in Kodai. The ground floor stank of the ill maintained loo. We climbed up to the first floor restaurant to realize we were the only guests. The menu boasted of continental fare and we ordered a soup, a steak and pasta. The potato and cream soup was good. But the steak came on a steel plate. I kid you not. And the pasta was terribly over boiled. Then it started to rain, lashing on the tin roof while we played Scrabble. In due course the rain abates and we wade through ankle deep puddles and steams that had become the road. We trudge to Potluck for a cup of hot cappuccino and cocoa each to keep from freezing. It was silly to have worn summer sandals in the hills which has a penchant for sudden rains.

We get to Cinnabar as the mist envelops the hills. Another evening of vodka and deep thoughts (!) and we get to enjoy the Lebanese fare cooked with love by Vasu and Bala. There was hummus and pita bread along with other goodies. All healthy and super tasty. We retire to bed making plans for the next morning.

Our bus was to leave in the late evening and therefore we had time enough to get to town in the morning, post breakfast. Our first stop was the local market from where we bought carry bags. We needed them to carry the ‘treasures’ we bought in Kodai. Then we walked across to the Carlton Hotel. We prayed for the sun as we parked ourselves in their sprawling velvety lawn. Their property hugs the lake and offers an amazing view of the hills that surround the vale. Mid afternoon the sun peeped out of the clouds and we go shutter happy like two teenage bumpkins. With the sun still playing hide and seek we walk into this dingy looking eatery called Rasoi. Surprisingly they boast of and open kitchen and apparently make their food from scratch after the order is placed. We meet Charlie the head ‘chef’. I have never before seen someone using a pair of pliers as tongs. Charlie kindly allows us to photograph him in action, in return for a promise to send him a copy of his photo when we return to Bangalore. The food that was served was very well made and reminded me of home. Everywhere I go there just has to be one bong connection. The man serving the dishes happens to be from Bengal and we exchanged words in our native tongue with much mirth. There is a secret pleasure in finding someone in a foreign land who speaks your language. Or maybe, I am just getting old.

Towards the afternoon we head back to Cinnabar to finish packing and maybe catch a bit of sleep as we prepare for another sleepless night in the bus. We get done with the packing, somehow managing to squeeze everything in our modest overnighter. Then Vasu gets us tea and we get going with the camera.

Vasu’s garden has avocados literally falling off the trees. Yes, they taste as good as they look. Done with the outdoors, we get Vasu to ‘pose’ for us. We didn’t miss the kingfisher sundial either.

Around 6.45pm we realize the bus would leave in another 15 minutes. Vasu and Bala both came to drop us to the bus station. Vasu, god bless her, thoughtfully packed a goodie-bag of apples and homemade multigrain buns for the journey. She really didn’t have to do that since they were to host us till the breakfast on that day. They also graciously let us keep the room till the evening. All of these thoughtful gestures added up to make this a memorable trip. All was not over yet. The hellish bus ride had to be done yet. The downhill ride at breakneck speed made us sick to the core. Late night the bus stopped at a dingy eating joint and an adjoining dirty loo with red light for illumination. Imagine that. We live through that desperately hoping to get to Bangalore with our sanity intact. The rest of the night remained uneventful and we reach Bangalore at the early hours of the morning. Home and a clean bath later, I head for office munching the apple from the goodie-bag.

after the hills it was the sea...

The devil and the deep blue sea....and not to miss the candooling couple braving the scorching sun!

the frangipani @ Villa Bayoud

Villa Bayoud @ Pondicherry

Villa Bayoud courtyard

A gourmet patisserie

Creepy snake @ Baker Street...but it's harmless dough!

It's a turtle...made of dough again!

Our room @ Villa Bayoud - Legend has it that Mother stayed in the same room when she first came to Pondicherry. This 300 years villa is now a heritage hotel.

Rue Francois Martin - around the corner of the Governor's House

The deserted Beach Road at 7AM

reliving Coonoor - photo montage....

I wrote about the blue hills here and as pictures paint a thousand words so here goes....

Our destination....

The guesthouse!

The Coonoor valley....

Uncle and Aunty....completely in love with each other!!

The tea garden

Way to the guesthouse....

Is this the end of the world???

misty....!!

The clouds hugging the hills

Evening mist..

Yeah... they left me here...alone and lonely...(sniff!) while I was taking the previous shots!!!

The road that led to near annihilation! Some nincompoop told us this path leads to a graveyard and the rest is history...

This one is for SimplyMarry.com...aww our Mr.Dee is shy! Enquiries welcome :-)

On our way back...the puncture shop...(spot the missing wheel!) and they are shiny alloy ones...it's heart breaking to watch them getting mauled!

But you goto learn to say goodbye....

faux pas @ pondy

It was close to 3 in the afternoon. Two women in a car with a crazy chauffeur who claims to have changed his name recently. The place is near Beach Road, Pondicherry. The women are increasingly getting excited since the chauffeur is making no effort to ask for direction to their hotel. The streets aren't exactly crowded with 40C outside. They seem to be going in circles. Finally, one of the women spots a living soul on the side of the road. An old man completely engrossed in cleaning his fingernails. On her insistence the car screeches to a halt. Hell, she can do this...this is her car. The tinted window rolls down. She peers out and smiles at the old man on the road.

"Rue Saint Martin?" Her accent distinctly french.

"Eeehh?"

"Rue Saint Martin?" she repeats loudly.

"Whaaat? Money exchange??" he asks with enthusiasm.

The woman turns red on the face. The other woman smiles and waves a thank you to the man before collapsing on the car seat. Both woman giggle hysterically leaving the madcap chauffeur perplexed.

Last heard one woman telling the other "Sweetie the French left loong ago, remember!"

born to be wild!

I did something that I hadn’t done for a long while and honestly, it feels so gooood! Yeah! I bunked work, packed my bags, said bye to parents and child and took off to the hills with of course two friends for company. It all started on a Saturday drinking session at Indijoes. That’s where the idea spurted and over happy-hour beer and steak, we decided to take off to Coonoor. So there we were on M G Road, wrapped up in shawls on a cold windy Bangalore morning, huddled up in Dee’s car, frizzling with excitement like the first school picnic where you got to sit with your best friend in the bus. In anticipation, I slept fitfully through the previous night making endless lists in my head of millions of things that I might have forgotten to pack. I don’t remember being this excited since I went for a college picnic. (ahem!)

Since Dee had to be woken up from bed, (yes sir!) while we waited on M G Road, we didn’t start at the time we intended to. Therefore got caught in city traffic, till we reached the highway. The drive went on with the first stop at Maddur MTR where we stuffed ourselves for breakfast. We continued peacefully till Mysore where we decide to take a ‘never-before-taken’ Ring Road, bypassing the city. For once, the road sign led us to the right path and despite our skepticism and doubts we reached Ooty Road well on schedule. The drive through Bandipur and Madhumalai was beautiful. At one spot where the road narrowed down, we met a herd of elephants. Majestic creatures that they are can look quite threatening up close. We saw a host of monkeys skipping about by the side of the road and looking out for open car windows to hop in and scavenge for food.

The 36 hairpin bends to Ooty took a little effort and encouragement. Grin. Dee had apprehensions and we bribed him with a promise of a sexy back massage when we reach Coonoor. He did not know then, that a far scarier drive awaited him on the slopes of Coonoor. We did the bends, Dee gripping the wheel and Rach and me, muttering a prayer under our breaths. We counted each one of the bends and like a trained parrot I kept reminding Dee to honk before climbing each bend. I got teased amply for it later. Next stop was lunch at Nahars in Ooty. We reach there after some drama of reversing on a downward slope with Dee losing his cool for a bit. It started raining softly by then and we managed to move inside the restaurant where all unoccupied tables were waiting to be cleared of the earlier order. I wisely stuck to a South Indian thali while Rach and Dee took their chances on naan and aloo methi. What arrived though was boiled aloo sprinkled with fried methi leaves. Rach promptly christened it Crackling Methi but i goto admit, we felt better with food in our tummy. At Nahars we met Rach’s aunt and uncle. They live in Coonoor and were having lunch with their guests. In fact Rach’s uncle was instrumental to booking the guesthouse where we were to stay. After direction to guesthouse was drawn up on a paper napkin, we hurried off to Coonoor. We landed there only to realize there was another family staying there aswell. No problem we thought. We got the booze baby. The booze turned out to be an awful concoction called Vanilla Vodka. God bless the state of Tamilnadu where government-controlled wine stores leave no choice for the customer. So while the youngest of the other family hogged the TV watching cartoons, we made merry playing Pictionary. Oh! The squiggles caused laugh riots and I have preserved them for posterity. After dinner we sat around the porch listening to the rain and enjoying the strangeness of a mountain night. Day 1 ended with Dee thinking he heard croaking toads while Rach and I were sure they were crickets!

Day 2 began easy and slow. Rach and I lazed around in the garden talking mostly about Kolkata and food (yes, the too are intimately connected!). It’s so de-stressing to not have any pre-designed agenda on a holiday! The other family had left by mid morning so we hung around watching TV till late afternoon and working out the plan for the night’s binging. The caretaker Ramu was roped in to arrange for beer (any brand boss! Just get it!) and a pack of cards since Dee wanted to learn ‘teen patti’ (an Indian variant of the card game Flash). So while Ramu went about the arrangements, we ordered in lunch from Orchid Square. After lunch we pestered Dee to take us shopping – the usual knick knacks. Dee and I managed to fill the car with utterly useless things like a set of needles (my idea) to be gifted to our moms. We bought locally produced cheese and honey and Dee picked up hemp shirts for himself and bro on Rach’s suggestion. He also managed to twist his back while trying to open a display drawer in one of the shops. However, a stiffened back never stopped him from surveying the chick scene. Such a braveheart! In a split second, he claimed to have made lingering eye contact (no less!) with a pretty lady who zipped past in a Scorpio. Rach and I thought of debating the improbability, however, we never argue with a man who takes women shopping with very little persuasion.

On our way back, we dropped in at Rach’s uncle’s home. An eco-friendly home with a real fireplace and a pretty garden. Ashok uncle and Malu aunty is the most amazing couple I have ever met. The kind that make me wish for a warm pair of arms hugging me every morning. The kind that make me wish for someone to grow old with. mmmm. They filled the room with scintillating conversation that meandered from book reviews of one of their friends to their close encounter with a bigcat. Aunty gave us roses from her garden. A hitherto unprecedented act according to Rach, since Aunty is so passionate about her garden. However, Dee got a full-bloomed big pink rose, the prettiest of the lot! It will suffice to say Dee never lets go of a chance to pour his charm in generous measures. Enthused by their stories, we decided to venture out and drive around to the jungle. The scenery was breathtaking with the blue green mountains suddenly veiled by wispy shroud of grey clouds. The sun was setting and lights were fading fast. We decided to head for the guesthouse. But such was not to be. Rach mentioned an interesting cemetery and I suggested we take a look. Which led us to a road with no humanity in sight. On the way we stopped at the gate of Mansoor Khan’s (Amir Khan’s uncle) sprawling bungalow. The adventure ended abruptly a little further as the road constricted and we found ourselves stuck on a narrow ledge that doubled as a footpath barely wide enough for the car and hugging the steep mountain slope with nothing but tea bushes for company. We couldn’t move forward as there was no road in sight. The only option was to reverse the car. Reverse? Here? Rach and I got off the car to help Dee with 'navigation'. We tried reversing for a while with the front wheel narrowly missing the outer edge by a few inches on more than one occasion. This side is a 6000 ft sheer drop and the other a rockface bristling with thorny bushes. Our cellphones showed no signal. We were cut off from civilization and the jungles are known for bigcats and snakes. The lights were fading. We prayed we don’t get a puncture. As Dee cautiously inched backwards, the brakes let out strong whiffs of burnt rubber. We prayed for an opening where Dee could turn the car. With night approaching fast, it would be impossible to reverse the car all the way to civilization. Short of a kilometer of reversing, we found a grassy patch big enough for the car to turn around. Rach and I hopped in and hugged Dee for keeping his nerve and headed homeward to get to our well-deserved booze binge.

We reach the guesthouse to find uncle and aunty already there to check whether we have returned from our wild jaunt. Thus began an entire evening of surreal stories that ended with uncle driving us to a spot in the hills where we could see the whole Metupalayam valley, glittering like ‘stars below’ (Aunty’s words). The deafening silence of the night on a wet hill side greeted us as we peered into the valley praying desperately for the clouds to melt away. But we could only see the spidery moon, winking occasionally from behind the veiled grey of the clouds. A little disappointed, we got back to the guest house where the now-chilled beer awaited. Grin. Chilled beer on a chiller night. Awesome. It all started off peacefully enough. However, night was still young. As the night progressed, we sank into ribald debauchery. Two drunken women threatening to do a ‘channe ki kheth mey’ dance on the moonlit lawn in their night clothes at 2AM, requires the man to be enormously brave to survive. The talk got kinky and wild and the laugh got louder. Dee bore the brunt with his signature silence and occasional twinkling-naughty smile. By then, we were beyond redemption and huddled up on his bed leaving the poor fellow squeezed and begging to be allowed to sleep. But such was not the plan. We insisted on playing cards on his bed and bulldozed him to a game which was a version of strip poker, the stripper of course being Dee. Looking at the wild women, he had enough reason to panic and hugged his blanket like he was born in them while we dragged the sweater off him. This isn’t a family blog and I could have easily written about the raunchy details with glee except that Dee refused to shed any other piece of clothing and the two of us tired out of the effort of pulling a fat sweater off a grown man fell on either side, snoring. It was with the early morning ‘azan’ from a far off mosque that I sauntered to my room only to fall in bed restlessly with an aching arm caused by alcohol induced dehydration. Rach too woke up with a painful forefinger and kept asking ‘do you know what I did with this finger last night?’ Yeah baby, some things are better forgotten. Grin.

We filled the morning with endless chatter and Dee quoting my previous nights utterances. In all this, we overshot the time we had planned to start for Bangalore. Finally, we left the guesthouse around 2PM to discover that we have a flat tyre. Somehow we managed to hitch the car till the petrol bunk but being a Sunday, the few auto garages were all closed. We trekked down further to finally find a dirty shack that passed for an auto garage. They mauled the shinny new alloy wheel till I was ready to beat up the guy. Dee gave me the offending nail to be kept as keepsake. It took over an hour to repair. Then on, we reached Ooty without a hitch while it rained. On the downward drive through the hairpin bends, we had Ghalib’s beautiful words flowing in the car. We drove through the Bandipur-Madhumalai–Mysore stretch chasing stray cars. Yes, cars. Grin. It was 11 at night when I got dropped home. But it’s never over till its over. On the way from my home to Dee’s, the car ran out of gas and Rach and Dee had to push it to the nearest bunk. Finally, I got an alls well message at 12 with all of us slumped in our respective beds. So till we meet again....

'Get your motor runnin'

Head out on the highway

Lookin' for adventure

And whatever comes our way...'

Yesterday has been a rite of passage of sorts. Since I know, I have been orgasmic about chicken biriyani. I love and savour it like some women worship and salivate over John Abraham. And I am not a snooty foodie, therefore have had this beloved ‘item number’ across cities, towns and across price ranging from a happy Rs.35 to a heady Rs.375.

But it finally happened yesterday. I was at my favourite biriyani haunt in Hyderabad. And no it isn’t Paradise. It’s a quaint place called Point Pleasant on Banjara Hills Rd. 10. Don’t go by the name or the fading garish look. For the last one year that I am traveling to Hyderabad frequently, I have sworn by their chicken dum biriyani. In Hyderabad, this is my staple everyday. I skip breakfast and dinner to be able to gorge on this ‘item’ during lunch. But the spell broke. Just like many others over the years of wising up. The beautifully laden plate didn’t excite. The mind-bending aroma didn’t titillate. I was left with stunted emotions grouping desperately to find my ‘love’. I watched the curling steam and found myself wishing for a plate of curd rice. My conversion complete. I am praying it is a temporary affliction. Let the lord be with me.

@ HYD Airport

Sitting at Hyderabad Airport, I am enraged. I just realized that flying to and fro from Bangalore I paid the user development fee twice! If that wasn't enough, at Bangalore, I was told that the airport is not accepting cards of any kind as they don't have the facility and neither do they have change for a Rs.500 since passengers are expected to carry the exact amount! This is 6.30AM and I am expected to find the exact change and tender the same. WTF!

First, I didnot ASK for a swanky airport where a plate of iddlis (2 nos.) costs Rs.90. I didnot ask for an airport that will cost me Rs.700 to reach. Many talk of better 'facilities'. I would ask which ones? Yes, the toilets are cleaner but there is no announcement box inside. So if you errr take longer you just might miss the flight.

I consider air travel as a basic service that should be provided to the average tax-paying citizen. The airports should function efficiently with on-time departure and arrival, acceptable hygiene and cleanliness and other facilities at a reasonable price. I would rather have a no-frills airport that has a better record of on-time takeoffs! Who needs these fancy branded shops that pay a bomb to be there and pass that on promptly to the customer. Imagine if Chennai Central starts charging UDF since it has introduced trolly carts to ferry passengers from entrance to the platform. I bet the railways have a far better record of timely departures and arrivals. So what am I really paying for?

Ok enough cribbing. The road to airport is far prettier in Bangalore than Hyderabad. But Hyderabad has many competitive players in the air-conditioned cab service. Better options than Bangalore.

the bleep and the bloop

I am in ‘Satyam’ land. Hyderabad has definitely mellowed. A locality like Banjara Hills looked desolate at 7.30PM on a weekday. Strikingly different from what I had experienced last time. And here’s fool proof evidence of market nose diving. I call it the Auto-Con Index. This time to get to the hotel from office (less than 1km) the autorickshaw driver politely asked for 15 rupees. On my earlier visits I shelled out 30 rupees for the same distance, that too after a lot of cajoling! So that’s a straight 50% discount on the 'extra fare' and the politeness was a bonus. First I thought it was an one off lucky aberration. But same thing this morning. The first driver I asked was willing to go and all for rupees 15. Wow! I hope my fortune lasts next week when I am in Chennai. That will be the acid test!

But this trip is not without its share of bloopers. Hob asked me to get a Charminar and without thinking (which is fast becoming a habit!) I said, “What! When did you start smoking Charminar?...” His retort, not surprisingly was “Ufff…it’s so difficult to talk to you! Never mind….I wanted a miniature of the iconic….” Not good. Not good at all. Last week he said my ability to observe is poor (I would call it ‘selective’) and now this. Agreed, I present my deficient senses on a platter for him to pick on me, but still….hmmm.

chance?

Was it chance that just now when I went to the liquor shop next to my office, I find it filled with women aged 60 to 16? The shop owner is the only man. I had to stand in a queue with babbling women all buying alcohol for their fathers, brothers, 'friends'. The two girls infront are definitely below the permissible age for drinking. The shop owner doesn't blink. Infact, he has his whole family helping him out in the shop including his 10 year old daughter and pretty wife. Ms. Bubbly infront of me orders a list ranging from whiskey to rum with such finesse that I cower in shame. Then finally she says 'a chota smirnoff for me'. Giggles. 'Give me too', Ms. Bubbly's mate cooes. 'The bottle is so cuuuute!' 60 ml of vodka each in their anorexic bodies. God help Goa.

god parade!

One other highlight of my recent trip to Himachal was the Dusheera mela in Kullu. Rustic and steeped in tradition, it was fantastically intriguing. Way back in mid 1600, the then Raja of Kullu brought back an idol of Ram from Ayodhya and established the Raghunathji temple in Kullu. From then on, every year on the dusheera day, the hundred odd villages in and around Kullu participate in the mela where they bring their village deity and assemble in the central ‘maidan’ to pay their respect to Raghunathji. What follows is a procession of all the deities led by Lord Raghunathji. All the village deities ‘sign’ attendance at Raghunathji temple before ‘they’ are allowed to take part in the parade. For the next one week all the deities are kept under ‘house arrest’ in a designated part of the ‘maidan’ before they are allowed to travel back to their native villages. Of course in the course of the week there are brawls among the villages as to whose deity is more ‘powerful’. Then the deities fight it out to establish supremacy. The police 'bandobast' was tight. Incidentally, HP has the highest percentage of hindus according to the last Census and ofcourse the current BJP govenment encourages participation.

We met travellers from near and far who had come to view the parade. A family from Tel Aviv with a tiny tot in tow, an old couple from Scotland, several families who had driven down from Delhi and a bunch of youngsters who were filming the festivities for Discovery.

call of the hills

I have been traveling in Himachal for the last couple of days. The trip was packed with the usual and sundry like Shimla and Manali and the exciting like Rotang and Keylong.

Shimla was a drab. Too many people, too many houses, too many vehicles and too few locals. It is just like any other congested town in north India. You might as well be sitting in Bhatinda or Hoshiarpur except for the comfortable chill at nights. In fact the traffic is as bad as Bangalore, if not worse.

Manali, is a true blue budget tourist destination. Hotels are mushrooming at an alarming speed as are tourist taxis. And there is cuisine for every palate from macher jhol to sushi. I tried the former but didn’t risk the latter, though the local trout (which are farmed extensively in the fast flowing brooks) were good. And no didn’t get my hands on manali cream. Having a small boy and an old man for company is a sure fire way to deter any dope dealer from approaching.

Rotang at 15500ft is a beauty. Icy and cold. Lofty and majestic. Sharp and threatening. But yeah as usual too many people. Yelling families, bawling babies, teenagers munching away and littering the mountains with empty packets of Lays and Kurkure. Goes to show our value system and education are totally awry.

Keylong, the capital of Spiti and Lahaul (between Manali and Leh) is still pristine. It remains cut off from the rest of the world from Nov to June since the Rotang pass closes in winter. An absolute beauty in its severity and starkness. One has to be there to experience the freezing nights and the silence that cleanses the soul. We had planned to get to Leh (2 days of bumpy bus ride from Keylong) but bad weather thwarted the plan and we landed up spending more time in Manali. If I did not have to worry about a livelihood, I would have settled somewhere in the hills inhaling the thin air and enjoying the quiet.

Well now I am back in Bangalore and back at work. Groan!

It was just a routine flight back home. Familiar airport. Familiar airline. No delays. Thank God. I rarely make conversations while traveling. Let’s just say I rarely converse with strangers even when I am not traveling. I don’t stop to chat with airline counter girls no matter how cute they are like many gentlemen I notice doing, holding up the entire check-in queue. Nor do I pour over the next person while waiting at the security lounge asking inane questions like ‘Do you think the flight will be delayed further?’ I spend my time at airports usually reading a book (I am not obsessive about checking mail/male!) and observing amusing contradictions like an Indian handicrafts store stacking Barbie dolls on the display shelves (yes Sir, at Pune airport) or a men’s clothing store inside security lounge (I thought women were compulsive buyers!).

Anyway getting back to today’s story. (See how easily I get distracted like a child catching a glimpse of shiny toffee wrapper!) Standing at the check-in queue, I try to ignore the nudging baggage trolley behind me. The owner of the baggage obviously mistook the trolley for a Playstation. Finally I give the counter girl my ticket printout and frequent flier card expecting the usual greeting and standard questions. Unexpectedly she says, “You have a very nice name”. The suddenness of the remark dislodges my cultivated poise and I smile despite myself. It turns into a grin by the time she hands me my boarding card.

Sitting at my window seat and feeling the familiar queasiness during take off I remember how, recently while buying a mobile phone the receipt spelled my last name as 'Boss' causing someone to rib me endlessly. I remembered too how some years back, while stopped by the traffic inspector for driving on high beam, I was playing for his sympathy (a helpless mother with a child!) and three year old Ro sitting next to me was doggedly spelling out my name and our address as I tried to cover his mouth with my palm. Also how, after I moved to Bangalore I have surrendered to the mutilation of my name without even a whimper. Now, it is almost always my company who lunges forward to correct my name while I remain blasé. Lost in the name game I reach home to find my mailbox spewing letters marked to Mister Piya Bose. Sigh! I know I can’t win.

pest control

I have been traveling cross country in my singular person for both work and play. I am equally at ease with the idyllic calm of a vacation paradise, the murky pollution of the metros to the confounding obnoxiousness of our small towns. There is absolutely nothing that will change my unperturbed state. Not the horribly delayed fights, cheating cabbies with no sense of direction, check-in assistant who gives you window when you specifically ask for aisle seat, security lady who feels you up with glee, hostess who despite your explicit request wakes you up to ask if you would have vegetarian or non vegetarian meal, pesky co passengers who unapologetically ask for your refused share of airline food, hi-tech bath fixtures of hotel rooms that leave you dumbstruck, TV remotes that compete with a missile launcher in complexity, Nothing bothers me. Except the men.

If you are a woman who travels solo, then you are already aware of the perils this species pose. So far no antidote has worked. Trust me I have tried. I don my abandoned wedding band whenever I leave for the airport. I have tried to look dour and dreary. I have buried myself in a book to escape. It hasn’t worked. Usually it begins innocuously enough. ‘Traveling to Bangalore?’ ‘Is the flight on time?’ ’I heard there is an airport strike from midnight.’ ‘How is this book?’ Then comes the obvious ‘You are traveling alone?’ ‘Where are you staying?’ followed by the unmistakable offer for coffee. No thank you. I don’t want to share my book, coffee or space with you.

There’s the on-your face-type, who wouldn’t think twice before asking a completely strange woman ‘Join for coffee?’ ‘Can I drop you home?’ And then there are smooth operators that probe with stealth. ‘I like your choice of book’ Like Hell! For all I know you have a lifetime subscription of Penthouse. Anyway do I look like I care? These subtle types are the most dangerous. Before you realize it they would not only know your birth chart and family tree but your vital stats as well.

Now, the tragedy of this whole thing is that I am not the glam-doll-Page3-wannabe type that one would feel an uncontrollable urge to talk to nor the attractive young things that are ubiquitous at airports these days or the dashingly smart woman executives who are out to prove a point. More often than not I am lugging my monstrously heavy laptop and wearing a grimace for an expression. Unless you are telling me that men of all ages like to chat up scowling members of the opposite sex, please enlighten me on what’s going on.

plane speaking

Now, I am not as lucky as Reno, so despite warning from well wishers I decided to fly Indian (now known as Air India). If you travel often, you get used to flight delays which these days are as common as bird flu. You would be surprised if it wasn’t delayed. However, the shiny new airlines with their smiling young things inform and apologize for the delay. As customers, we have matured over the last decade and expect at least that much. No more are we ‘swalpa adjust maadi’ with the public sector’s apathy to service. So I wasn’t really prepared for the no-information policy of Air India. Customers shouldn’t be told of anything. It’s a favour we are doing by flying you dude…remember that. The wait was for over 90 minutes and this was after security check. While all other airlines announced the status of their flights, we were left to God’s mercy.

Then all of a sudden we were on the bus to be carted to the craft. But wait, the passengers need to be ‘sweated’ while the crew ambles about. A free sauna, anyone? So forty odd people were packed in a shabby bus and left at the tarmac sweltering in the hot sun. No information again. Some more time later we board the craft and see that the tyres were being changed. Fine, safety above all else. We are ok with that. People all around me got busy on the phone to re-schedule all previously arranged appointments. One young man kept spewing fs and bs, as if that’s going to help any. But I guess all the airline personnel were his dad’s age and he was probably reluctant to take up the service issues with them. See, how the older retirement age works in their favour. Anyway, finally we took off smoothly. Thank you.

Mid-air the pilot apologized for the delay blah blah. Caged in an aluminum tinbox, thirty thousand feet above ground, there’s nothing much one can do but ignore the apology. Along came the food. Of course you don’t have a choice, we have only vegetarian. No thank you. I usually avoid airline food. But the man sitting across the aisle quickly asked, can I have hers? From the look of him, he didn’t look hungry, but what do ya know. Fine, I relax in my seat happy that I was alone in the three-seater.

But it didn’t last long. A young lady, with a new born infant in her arms asked me to move to the window seat. Just asked. No reason. No request. I move to the window quickly sensing her impatience. She settled at my aisle seat and turned towards my window and started suckling her baby. I suppose I was gaping. Not at her mammary but at the sheer ease with which she did it. I am a mother and I support breast feeding. But this was such a smooth operation. Quite like a FBI agent pulling a gun out of the holster in a TV show. Impressive. I was left with little choice but to look out at the toneless azure outside the window while the baby chuckled with delight. I am convinced that is a boy and thus begins his life long fascination with this particular woman’s appendage. Oh I am such a boor!

Anyway, coming back to the flight, we reached safely only to wait out at the tarmac once again after deplaning for another aircraft to take off before we could walk to the terminal building. But for the first time in my life, my baggage was the first to arrive on the conveyor. Halleluiah!

Getaway...

We had been to Hampi and loved every minute of it. The ruins of the capital city of Vijayanagar empire were awe-inspiring despite the dust, heat and callous fellow visitors. Shall write about it soon.

my wow moments...

I have never been particularly religious. Brought up in an environment where rituals weren’t enforced, I am a believer but not overtly so. To date, I know only two prayers by heart. The Gayatri Mantra, taught by my grandfather when I started speaking and the Lord’s Prayer, that I learnt in my catholic grade school. And I usually recite both at one go.

My grandfather followed a ritualistic regime while allowing us to have sacred personal beliefs. His house had a prayer room on the top floor where there was space for all the 33 million Hindu Gods (exposed to non-discrimination of Gods, it still astonishes me to discover the various hindu religious sects and sub sects). The rituals were simple and non-obligatory for his family members. He read the Gita every evening wearing his un-dyed raw-silk dhoti and ‘angavastra’ after a fresh shower, sitting cross-legged on his woven prayer mat, with incense stick burning along with oil lamps. Awed by the setting as much as by him, we made it a point to be a part of the experience during vacation time. The evening prayers ended with a song praising all the Gods and distribution of ‘prasad’, which consisted of savouries prepared by my grandmother. Sitting on a jute mat, looking at the shifting shadows from the flickering flames and listening to my grandfather’s voice filling the room, was my earliest experience of wow (wonderment of world).

The other time, has been in a partially dilapidated St. Mary’s church in Bandel, West Bengal constructed by the Portugese in 1660, one evening many decades ago. In no other place of worship have I found the feeling of peace and poignancy in equal measures that will stun you to silence and urge you to scream in jubilation all at the same time. I hear they have repaired the building and even offer package tours for visitors, after being accepted by the Vatican as a Minor Basilica.

Another such experience was in a two centuries old Shiv temple in Buri Jageshwar, Kumaon, Uttaranchal. We had visited this hilly hamlet of 20 odd families for my field dissertation during my final university year. The temple is on the fir enclosed bank of a rivulet called Dudh Ganga, named so since the stream cuts through a narrow valley of quartz stones, which gives the clear water the illusion of a flowing river of milk. The first day when we entered the granite curved temple in the bone-freezing early hours of dawn, we were surprised that there were no hawkers selling the usual ‘dali’ of flowers, sweets and incense sticks offered to the Gods. Later we were told that the deity accepts no offerings. Specially flowers. The village had a complete ban on picking flowers including the ones blooming on the roadside. The puja rituals did not include any offering of flowers. The only expectation was that one sits through the prayers. Sitting in silence on the lonely, cold stone outside the sanctum sanctorum, I have never felt so connected to the world.

But all the Diwali hoopla on media and in my present surrounding, leaves me rather cold and distant.