Filmi Romances Part 1

In the last few weeks, I happened to watch a measurable amount of TV. And that was because I was in such a perpetual state of ennui, that I didn't even want to get my computer out of its snuggly carry bag. So I went to the kitchen, made myself a nice sandwich and sat down in front of the tele.

Flipped channels and settled with Swades on SET Max.

Now whenever I see this flick, life suddenly starts looking much better. I have no clue what Ashutosh Gowariker did while filming it, but the guy genuinely made a masterpiece. What could have been any other film like the thousands that are rolled out week after week from the factory called Bollywood, this one manages to be so different, so sublime and yet so apt in its appeal that it takes the pain of a Hippo sitting on me to beileve that it wasn't a success. It did get the critical acclaim of a Slumdog Millionaire but nothing like the 'Superhit' tag that Om Shanti Om with its shitty storyline had got. Not even an iota close to that.

There are a myriad aspects of Swades-the-movie that I would love to discuss, that I find striking everytime that I am onto this movie, but this time, I would stick to discussing the part which had me shutting my ears to my friend's phone call for a treat. And that part of it revolves around the Sharukh Khan-Gayatri Joshi (Mohan Bhargava and Geeta in the movie) chemistry.

Lets get straight to 'Sharukh-in-his-vest avtaar' first.

The chemistry between Mohan and Geeta is astoundingly subtle. Dressed in their simplest, with the dreamy village setting, the naughty inuendos and it just can't get any better than this.

The best part is that their romance never gets overly sentimental. Its ethereal, and makes you have that really good feeling in your heart.

Geeta is the simple village teacher we all want to fall in love with.

Coming back to the movie:

It all starts at a book store where Mohan subsitutes for his friend at the cash counter. Unsuspecting as he is, he is dumbfounded by the beauty of Geeta while she is scolding another customer. Although Geeta misguides him, he does manage to reach the village where she stays with Mohan's Kaveri-amma. Geeta isn't the reason that Mohan is back in his village. He wants to take Kaveri-amma back with him to Amreeka. And that becomes the point of contention between Geeta and Mohan-'who gets to keep Kaveri-amma?' While both try to outdo each other in getting a response from the old lady, Mohan gets to experience first hand the life in a small Indian village. Gowariker sahab does very well in giving out important social messages through Mohan's interactions with the people that he meets and the trivial things that keep happening everyday.

The village postman cum postmaster who doubles up as the man running the PCO/STD/ISD shop , and another man who wants to go and open up a highway dhaba in America, become his companions for most of the movie when he is not with his 'girl'.

Although Mohan feigns nonchalance at first, his meeting with a low-caste farmer to whom he had been sent to collect rent for his farm, breaks his semblance. The 10 minutes of the movie after his dinner with the farmer's family, who despite their meager means still treat him to good food ( Atithi Devo Bhava ) makes the NASA-returned 'desi' realise that despite everything, his heart still beats for India.

Now the film gets to the underlying message, "For change to happen, we must change". So many issues that we as Indians brushed under the carpets for years are tackled in a very non-didactic manner in the movie. The villagers keep treating Mohan as a guest from 'saat samundar paar' but it is he who manages to get them to stop ignoring the problems they face everyday. Then there is the usual debate between following tradition or blindly aping the West. Gowariker sahab has done a wonderful job by ensuring that nowhere in the movie does the protagonist lose his strength. The film never gets into becoming one big boring lesson on the ills that plague Indian society or a civics chapter from a 10th class book. Very few directors are able to retain that kind of power with the characters. The director has also done well with the use of people as imagery to recapitulate the important social messages he wishes to highlight.

Mohan touches the issue of caste system with ease. Education for children has also been highlighted throughout the film. Mohan tries to find Geeta students for the school where she teaches and goes on to enlighten villagers in a way that almost makes S-I-M-P-L-E appear too difficult to spell.

In the end he goes on to make the lazy, always procrastinating, 'sarkar karegi -type' villagers to help him construct a mini hydel power plant and produce electricity for the village.

Mohan is depicted as the Indian who goes to earn a foreign degree, do that million dollar dream job and still has his heart fixed deeply in his country. He embodies every 'desi' who wants to do something for his 'Des'.... apna Des... Swades.

The Underdog Story !

Its the story India is all about. Its the story we all love. You just need to know how to present it to the let world come out and take notice . We've had better movies talking about it. And what am I referring to?? There are just too many names to it..

And the movies..Salaam Bombay was one, Barah Aana. Countless films, actually. Just that nobody was interested. They came as quietly as they went away. And heaps of dust just kept settling on the tapes. It took a Danny Boyle to shoot a Slumdog Millionaire in our country, take it to the Oscars and sweep all the awards for us to realize. Had Slumdog been made in India by an Indian, would the movie had got the acclaim, the pedestal to which it has now reached? Would we have still preached it?? Or would the tape have been lying in some shady distributor's office, just beacause nobody else thought the film would get them anything (money,name) ? By the way, Indian directors had grown up a long time back. Only that our award ceremonies didn't. They still made sure that the previews of masala movies were all that you would see when this beautiful heeled anchor would walk in and announce the nominees for the best film..funny haan..And the good ol' flick would be sidelined to the beginning of the show in some critics category ( Its the middle and the end of an awards ceremony in Bollywood that is supposed to be the most-looked-forward-for segment) or even better..put somewhere near the technical awards.

So what's in an underdog story that we all love so much?

Now recently, I hadn't been too crazy about this season of the Indian Premier League. Why?

1. It wasn't being held in India so the excitement was always going to be missing.
2. The matches somehow seemed boring this time.

So it took an RCB (Royal Challengers Bangalore) vs DC (Deccan Chargers) IPL final to make me realize that this is something that I want to watch. For the sheer rebeliousness of the two teams to fight it out till the end. To be able to show the door to past champions, to stand out and be noticed.

And people loved it. Suddenly IPL2 was a success. After 58 matches and 37 days of hardcore cricket ( that ended up getting boring ) , we expected the final encounter to be OK, but it was special. The explosive Deccan Chargers and the fighter Royal Challengers played a match which was very close to a thriller and gave an entertaining end to the tournament. Chasing a low total, RCB had the edge. But then DC, backed by some unexpected performances, came out of nowhere to win the coveted title. And it made us realize that everyone still wants that slice of the Underdog story!

Is it inherently rooted in us to back the underdog? Or is it that we just vie for a little change? Why do we get bored so often? Is it our fixation for always wanting something different that makes us want a change in order? Lets say, we always wanted somebody to come up and beat Australia. Remove them from their position as no. 1. And somebody did do it. I was glued to watching the epic Wimbeldon final in 2008 between Nadal and Federer.

And how was he able to do it?

1) Greater hunger

2) Going for something rather than defending it.

So are these the only qualities that make an underdog break the domination of an incumbent or is there the X-factor too?

Probably. And I would say that be "Circumstances".

It was an ageing Kumble's last chance to prove himself. There were questions being raised on the efficacy of one of India's greatest bowlers. And he answered them wonderfully. He got his team together and played the knock of his life. Money can buy Peterson, but not a legend like Kumble. I am sure Vijay Mallaya would be thinking the same after his performance although his side lost the match. Kumble has really proved that cricket has hardly produced fighters like him. Yet he never got his due and the IPL 2 final was another example.

But then again the efforts of Gilchrist cannot be ignored, it was Gilly who single-handedly took his side to the IPL finals with his experienced strategies. This ageing Australian legend kept himself cool even under nail-biting moments and led his side to raise the trophy.

For both of them, it hasn't been easy at all. Their journey from the bottom of the chart last year to being in the finals this year has been truly deserving and remarkable. And that is why I loved them. And most of you loved them. For... the 'underdogs' rose to the occasion.

Al Pacino sums this up nicely when he tells a losing football team during half-time in the movie 'Any Given Sunday', "In any given fight, its the guy who is willing to die who is gonna win that inch". And life is all about those six inches in front of our face.

"Karna" & Holi

It gets so hot and humid in Delhi this time of the year that you want to be in a tub of cold water the whole time. And that got me back to remembering the one festival that we up here truly enjoy. Holi ! Wow..being thrown into puddles of water..and those lovely ghujiyas.!! Ahha !

So approximately 5 months later I let my mind wander.

Now every year this happens.The night before any festival I feel like being awake. Its probably because I want to see the dawn of the festival day. Feel how different it is from the rest. While I am usually the person who goes to bed the earliest in my house of 4, the eve of a festival usually begets very typical emotions in me. So once I decide that I am not going to bed, I get my personal theater ready for a show or snuggle up in the bunk for a nice read.

This year a friend of mine had lent me his MI1 and MI2 DVDs a few days before Holi and I hadn't had the time to see them. So I readied my watching space by making myself a glass of icy-cold Roohafza, four nicely toasted sandwiches, the computer and its accessories, and sat down to spend the night. Now both the MIs were a very nice watch considering Tom Cruise's amazing style, the stunts and the action. Why the hell hadnt I watched them before ?? I happened to have missed out on some really good films because I was never a theater regular and we didn't have a computer till very late in my life. Add this to the fact that my surroundings didnot even boast of a decent video library at the time and till this date cannot boast of one.

Lets get back to my weird habit of being awake. My parents are now used to this unusual behaviour of mine. So they don't really mind the lights those nights.

This year the night passed rather peacefully, without the periodical "so jao karan" coming from a sleepy mummy in the other room. At around 4 AM, I ventured into the verandah to feel the freshness of the morning. The smells that you get at this time of the day are amazing. One is rarely awake to see this time of the day. The air was so fresh that it made the hair in my nose stand on their ends. Arre..!! You don't get to breathe such good air in Delhi anymore. I could still smell the dew and there was that chilly nip which made me shiver. I went back inside. Took out some namkeen from a hidden corner in the kitchen cupboard and waited for the time to pass. What better way to pass time, than remembering the Good ol' days.

When I was younger, shops used to start stacking up colours, balloons and pichkaris weeks before holi. Whenever we used to pass those shops we used to stand there and stare in amazement at the different sizes and shapes of the pichkaris. We wanted to have them all. My neighbour and I used to circle around those shops in our cycles. We used to plan up our moves of sneaking up to the shopkeeper and asking him to show us the BIG pichkari. Some of our colony bhaiyas and didis used to scare us with Pakka rang during those days. We would be so terrorized that we would hide away in the bathrooms and would never get out of our house to play with them. Even dodging balloons was such a challenge that we would be scraed to venture out all alone.

Two-three days before holi, I used to celebrate Chotti Holi 3 or 4 times. Once in my colony, once at my friend's house, then again in my colony. At that age, Chotti Holi , or for that matter even Holi for us used to be a very simple affair. It had to be strictly 'Gubbare'. Nothing else. We were fascinated by them. We would have so much fun filling them up. Some of them would blast midway and wet us, while we would have to throw some of them at our friends just because we didn't know how to tie the knots ( I still don't know how to tie a water balloon knot) . So we would divide stuff between us. There was the expert at tying, the experts at filling and the rest used to stack them up safely in buckets filled with water. Later we would even have one man stationed at the balcony as a lookout for any man, woman or child passing in the street below. At any signal from our lookout we would load ourselves with balloons and stealthily rain terror on the street below, shotuing and yelling at one moment and getting 'gayab' from the scene at the other. When we would go back to filling balloons, we would invariably gorge on the Gujiyas and thandai prepared by a friend's mummy. And samosas also. Those which were humbly bought from the market. At nightfall, we used to sit around and have those long 'maine-uske-sar-pe-3-gubbare-mare' chats. Ahh...Those were the days !

The night before holi used to be dedicated to getting our pichkaris repaired at the cycle shop in our market. We used to get up at 6, oil ourselves properly to escape the wrath of pakka rang sticking onto you forever, and start filling water balloons, mixing 'tesu ke phool' or cut-pieces of bolied beet root into buckets of water to get our arsenal ready for the fight. Then we would all start at 7 o clock, throwing balloons from the verandah at anybody we could see, maybe throw a 2nd one at anybody who would protest. We would leave nobody undrenched. The chowkidaar, the safai karamchaari, the doodhwala. An hour or 2 later, my sister and I would be all prepared to wet my cousins who would come down from the floor above. We would be ready with buckets half-filled with water so that we could wet them when they stepped into sight.

At that time of the year, tap water would feel so cold that you would start shivering at the moment it touched you. So the 'thanda paani nakhras' were such a scene.

And then mummies and papas would come and smear colours on each other's faces and exchange greetings. We were interested in neither. All that would interest me were the sweets lying atop a table in one corner of the verandah.

Then daddys would force my cousins and me to go down into the street and play with the bhaiyas and didis staying in the colony. Sometimes those Bhaiyas used to come up the floor, colour us and take us down. That scene used to preceded by a lot of hiding behind mummies and running around the house screaming like little mad men. :-(

When we would finally go down to the street, this bhaiya with the monster pichkari that could suck up a bucket full of water would wet us so much with the thanda thanda paani, that we would start jumping around.

And I have such a laugh thinking about all that now !

While the days before Holi used to be spent with friends away from home, the day of Holi was generally a family affair spent at home. But in the more recent years things changed. Colony ke bhaiyas and didis got married off. We got older and plain old gulaal didn't interest us anymore. We wanted pakka rang and all the paraphernalia of the 'Gandi Holi'.

So the days before Holi were gone, and they were happily taken over by one day of dirty stuff on the day of Holi itself. So the day was generally spent with friends teaming up at one place and indulge in pakka rang, tearing off clothes, and picking up people and throwing them in keechar, and puddles of dirty water. No balloons, no pichkaris.

Waise bhi Holi is more of a competition now, where the sweet smelling gulaal is passe. You have to have the most 'pakka rang' for people to know that you played Holi in its true spirit. And later the stories, of how many times you bathed to get the colour off you, have to be narrated to every other person to make sure that they know that you played the 'real' Holi and weren't just indulging in some childish stuff. Huh. I still miss the balloon pelting and the pangas with pichkaris that we had earlier.

From the last 2 years we upgraded ourselves to playing holi the traditional way. And we eneded up with a spate of really interesting stories to narrate to our grandchildren.

Thapak ! eooow..that was cruel. Before I could realise what that was, another one hits me straight on my head. And now i realise that it is my 10-year old nieghbour pelting me with balloons. Oh my..It already is morning. I better get ready with my own stuff.

P.S : This one is dedicated to all my friends with whom I have had the wildest and wackiest of time, throwing gubbare and playing Holi.

Challaned !

Yes. I did get challaned today.

My father and sister were landing in Delhi from Baroda this morning . So I was to go and recieve them at the railway station. Got ready. Locked up the house. Took the car for her fill of petrol to the nearby Bharat Petroleum filling pump. Then I lazily parked myself amongst the slow moving cavalcade of traffic and made my way towards the station. Although the slow movement of the traffic was soporific, the horns and the frequent changing of gears kept me awake the entire time. Suprisingly the weather was really good. There had been showers for about 15 mins in the morning and this had made the office going 'junta' pretty shaant today.

Normally there is an abuse hurled every second on Delhi roads. There are a lot of antecedents for the abuse hurling..the heat, the 'pahuch-jayenge' and 'main-gaadi-bahut-acchi-chalata-hun' attitude and to top it all, an autorickshaw break down in the middle of the road. Apparently the Dilliwalas make quite a show out of their 'pahuch-jayenge-attitude' during the marriage season in the winter months with baraats reaching 1-2 hours late and the baraatis, only after the food has been served.

Anyway, I had just reached the Moolchand underpass. While I was making my way through it, I saw a bike in my side-rear view mirror. The bike slowly developed into a traffice police officer riding it. The officer overtook me. He looked at me. And I at him. He had crossed me now. But I was somehow suspicious. A second later, he looked back and asked me to stop by the side of the road. What had I done ? I was wearing a seat belt, drving within speed limit. Then what was this for?

I came out of the car and asked him. Meanwhile he had already taken out his challan booklet. I was driving with a defective number plate. Mummy had told papa so many times to get the darn thing repainted, but he hadn't paid heed to her advice. And well, the policewalla had noticed the peeling paint of the rear number plate. He had even gone as far as checking my front number plate when he overtook me.

I was asked for my licence. He scribbled for a few odd seconds on his challan booklet and booked me for my violation. 100 Rs. Damn it..The biryani at Nizam's gone !

Mid-Degree Crisis

My knack for cheesy titles doesnt really go away.

Now with the very wide variety of emotions that I tend to experience, the Mid-Degree crisis was one variant of the famous Midlife Crisis that I happened to experience some time back.

Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 by Elliott Jaques and used in Western societies to describe a period of dramatic self-doubt that is felt by some individuals in the "middle years" of life, as a result of sensing the passing of youth and the imminence of old age.

I happened to have felt it in my 5th semester, which somewhat classify as the "middle years" of my college life. The dramatic self-doubt had creeped in all of a sudden and I was getting older, now being tagged as a senior,  considered to be mature and "can-ask-for-advice" types by 2 levels of juniors beneath me.

In some ways we all love that time. The time in our grad life when we are being finally heard. But you know, slowly those realizations start creeping in that your time here is limited. That all this fun and tension- free living that you had is soon going to end. Everytime you sit down for a lecture, the walls start closing in on you and you can no longer hear the professor. All you hear are the walls and the windows and the blackboard screaming " the party's over, my friend. Time to move on".  

I get out of the class and its no different there too. Notices and posters don't make any sense. Its only alphabets which get highlighted and enlarged, like an encrypted message being deciphered when I look at it. And the hidden code seems to be saying the same thing. Mummies and daddies start pestering you again. Wanting definite answers about certain things. And you thought you had put and end to all that pestering by getting into a decent college. Now I realise that that was just one small 'pehlu' of the story. That I will have to solve many greater mysteries on my own.

I always had a hunch that I would be good as a detective. Atleast, my hunches aren't betraying me ! But the Mid-degree crisis did vanish in another 3-odd months. Till that time I enjoyed hallucinating.

The Hitchhiker takes the highway

The medley of smells that waft upto your nose once you leave Delhi. From biscuits being baked to the dung cakes basking on bricked buildings.

The contrast is actually so starking. 

Highways in India do give you some really fond memories. Lush green fields, temporary walls separating some possessive owner’s property, or small mud bunds between 2 fields on which innocence and childhood cycle their way home after a hard day at the school a few kms away. The donot mind that odd beating they get from their 'masterji'. The pain of that hard whack on the hand is nothing compared to the pleasure that seeing their friends in the pathshaala everyday gives them. You always see that extra step in their run to school every morning. Reminds me of the ‘School Chale Hum Campaign’ advertisement that used to be aired on TV years back. Flip channels to DD National and you might just catch it again.

The picture that you can paint is just too huge to fit into a canvas. There needs to be so much detail. Testing the shear skill of anybody who eyes such scenery.

The fields stretch as far as your eyes can see. And even more. At 5 in the evening, the sun shines in all its glory . Just a few hours away from dusk and the sky is still that perfect shade between blue and white. An odd hut, here and there, and suddenly a whole town full of bricked buildings which quickly transition back to the fields and huts. The golden and the green in the fields are so beautifully entwined that you donot want to able to differentiate between them at all. And the shrubs. Those little blobs of dark green, so barefaced in their existence, can unmistakably be spotted in between.

They spoil the image that could have been and yet make it the image that it is.

At 6 in the evening. the sun now at the zenith of its bright rededness is a few metres from the ground. Its face being obscured occasionally by thick black smoke being spewn by chimneys of brick kilns. And children. And there's a ball too. And the usual chase to the row of broken bricks presumably marking the boundary. The evening game of cricket. So quixotic in its appeal.

As the darkness begins to set in, you suddenly become aware of the mammothian monsters that the transmission towers  look like. 

They have their peculiar shapes. These transmission towers. Just like an elder overlooking you. Standing tall with the hands on the waist, waiting to reprimand you for not following your daily milk routine. The usual style we Indians love to stand in. They do seem monstrous especially at dusk. booooo...

  

And as the night sets in, your eyes can only make out that distant bulb lit in a hut somewhere or the medley of 'sandhya aarti' and the pujari ringing bells. And you know..you love it that way sometimes. The quiet, the darkness, the rythymic humming from the temples.

The cool air keeps hitting your face throughout the night while the flies keep abusing you for coming in their path. And the night goes on, and your only companions are the cosmic ones above you. Atleast you can see them clearly here. Thank God for that. Count the stars, make out different shapes and you fall into the soundest of slumbers.

Here in the country side, the morning makes its way very early. Although the sun seems a little sharp to your eyes, you like it.It isn't as sharp as it is in the city. And you do that little thing that you do everymorning..stretching your hands and legs in that wild motion, kicking everybody in your path and making that relaxing noise. You rub your eyes with your hands and the first sight that you get is a father carrying his son on his shoulder for his bath.The little boy protesting this breach of trust with the kickings of his tiny legs and hands.

And a new day starts in the countryside.

Heavenly.

It still stays untitled

Well, I couldn't figure out an appropriate title for this one too..

and it seems more interesting writing untitled posts for some time..than wracking your head to find a title fit enough to handle your ruddy writing...aye mate ?

Page 237..The Sixth Night..and that is all where Ive managed to reach. Aravind Adiga did manage to shell out some piece. The WHITE TIGER...It kept me hooked that long... Wow! No, don't get me wrong.. I do plan to finish that book. It does seem so very "my" type.

Lately, Ive been getting that feeling that I get really sluggish when I am reading a book. Things start seeming slower to me. Everything...and I mean everything around me, I see in slow motion now. My mother's been trying to tell me something which Ive done a '..hain..?? ' to a hundredth time..and she still doesnt get what's wrong with me. Atleast my puny brain does. Period.

I need to work to save my degree...

Why can't I learn to do some work? 

A Day Without Electricity

Was given this weird topic at some place, and I didn't know what to write. So I just let my mind wander on a sleepy Sunday morning and came up with this.

How better can life get? 

With no interesting serials coming out of the Balaji camp, that is what all the housewives are desperately wishing for.Clad in the heaviest of sarees, make-up and jewellery that could put to shame Bappi Lahiri's love for "all things gold" , these 16 somethings ( the 40 year olds prefer being called that..) with their puja thalis are thronging outside temples just so that God puts some sense back into that Ekta chick. So instead of making Miss Kapoor see sense, God opted for the easy way out of this mess. He decided to relieve all the women of their 8 to 10ish serial watching nightmare by ensuring a power cut. With the women now liberated, it was bad news for the 'oh-so-poor' husbands and the little ones. Who would want mummies breathing down thier necks as a nasty reminder for homework not done ? 

And..ahh the man of the house has another job to do now. Try his hand at becoming the naukar of the house, going about household chores , with no electricity to top it all. 

Now having made life difficult for the other species on the planet, the woman gets to sit down on that rickety chair. The wicked smile coming back to her face. The one which the vamp, from the serial she's been watching every single day, gives .That same one. And who says, God doesn't listen ?

Dilli...Meri Dilli aur meri poetry.

Poetry. 

For the past 2 decades, that is something that I have never been able to do.Even in school during Hindi classes, we were forced to write down small pieces. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I never could get rhyming words to fit into the scheme of things.

So at 20 years and some 8 months, severely suffering from Mid-Degree Crisis, I tried my hand at poetry...Oh yes I did. And I penned this piece down sitting on the backseat of a DTC bus riding back home. I actually wrote it so that someone could give me a first hand review with the poem on a post card.

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"Yaha sadko me hai jaam aur bas me dhakke

road pe ladte log aur unke wo dhande

Ye dilli hai mere yaar.

Purani dilli ki galiyan aur nayi dilli ke office

hotleo ki raunk aur paharganj ke adde

Ye dilli hai mere yaar.

May ki kadakti garmi aur saath me chalti loo,

fir bhi dopahar me hota cricket aur shaam me pithoo.

Barf ke wo gole aur paanch rupye ki cola bar

Bimar hokar bhi ham kabhi na mante haar.

Baarish me wo paani ka bharna

aur usme chalana wo naav

gande hokar ghar pahuchkar khaane mummy se maar.

Phir bhi na sudharna aur bane rehne yuhi dilli ki jaan....yuhi dilli ki jaan.

Aur inhi baarisho me na khatam hona

uncleoo ke pakodo ke shauk aur auntiyo ki chaat ki maang

Ye dilli hai mere yaar."

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"Thank you. Thank You."

Wanted to add a lot more about apni Dilli . But the driver wouldn't tolerate me in his bus any more.

Woww..Woww..Vada Pav...!!

Just to put in some pics of what this snack actually is, I tried searching "Vada Pao" on google..and the smarter search engine corrected me that it was actually Vada Pav and not what I had been trying to find. God Save Google...

Ahh...The days spent gorging on this delicacy in Maharashtra.

12 th June, the first day that my taste buds savoured "The Vada Pav".  I got up at 8 in the morning after a rainy night..and it was still raining cats and dogs outside. In my usual Puma shorts and a Tee, I came out of my room, went down and out of the lodge to find the weather perfect for a morning snack and a cup of garma garam chai.

I had no clue where I was and absolutely no sense of the directions either. I tried following my instincts which as usual got me closer and closer to food.. ( my nose guides my instincts most of the time without the slightest twinge of guilt) . I saw the street outside bustling with people who seemed to have no problem with the heavy downpour. I realised that an umbrella could have been something much more important than the dozen odd books which I had carried in my suitcase.

And then suddenly out of the blue...this big realisation dawned on me that Ma wasn't there to scold me even if I got drenched. So with the new found wisdom, I started walking and walking....one way to the other... from one street to the next..going past shops that still hadn't opened shutter..and tried to decipher Marathi signboards that looked down upon me..

Now, the curious case with marathi signboards is that they are all written in Hindi. In fact all the signs that i saw there were in Hindi. Even the km markings on the roads. How do they expect a Hitchhiker who never understood the nitty grtties of Hindi numerals in school to find his way around ? A lot of people did sympathize with me on this when i told them the story of how I used to find out how far I was from a place by looking not at the km markings but the markings on the trees next to the road.Suprisingly those trees had English markings on them which sort of followed some regular pattern that I could decipher.

My mother must surely have been very happy for me that time. Her son was solving puzzles. Something which he had never done. Well mummies definitely have their way of getting things done..huh !! Mummies, they rule the time, they know how to get things done without being there.. do you expect any less sir? 

Disappointed at finding nothing to eat in that part of the town, I decided to change route. I walked down the main road to other part of the town. Just a few steps from my lodge, the opposite direction of where I had initially gone in the morning was the bus adda. And there it was, just outside the bus adda...

Food Ahoy !! 

I got visual of rediwallahs, steaming hot chai, and the pleasant whiff of pakoras.

Yes, God had definitely made me for this. To eat. ( Well I couldn't get a better word ) . I quickened my pace. It didnot matter what these people thought of me. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. And I didnot have an umbrella. But those glances at my drenched body didnot matter.Everybody there except me knew that it rained heavily during those months. Well who cared anyway!! As long as I got something to eat. 

A series of tarpoline covered shops stood by the side of the road. Or I could say they appeared to be standing. A 5-year old leaning against them would have made them appear like a pack of cards .

Hey, wait a minute...where does the look of the shop come into this anyway? Its whats cooking beneath, that matters. I stopped by the first shop to see what he could offer me. Unfortunately the aroma didn't manage to get to my heart. In all matters of the FOOD, I can always tell. The freshness, the appeal, the droolability..

It was the 3rd shop that I finally got into. The bhaiya there seemed relieved. He must have seen me looking around. Thinking me to be some sort of a 'Connoisseur of modern street food' . I couldn't resist the urge any longer. I asked him for a chai, and something to accompany it. I was then that he offered me a Vada Pav. Having heard passengers screaming the word to vendors at stations in Maharashtra, I knew how popular the snack was. And So I agreed. Very naively, infact. Unaware of the fact that one bite would be enough. Enough to hook me onto this delicacy for a lifetime.

The preparation of the snack took no more than 3 odd seconds. But I will try and describe it you in sloooooooooooooooow motioooooon. He tore out a bun from the umpteenth rows of freshly baked buns ( commonly known as the 'Bombay Pav' ). He then applied a dry red masala onto the bun face. Seeing me clenching my teeth at his action, he assured me that it wasn't red chilli powder which I was thinking it to be. After that he popped in a Vada ( ..known as the Patata Vada , if eaten alone..) , closed the bun, and handed it to me.  To top it all, he put a green chilli in my hand. A Chilli smothered with a little salt. 

So there it was. All done and ready to eat.

And he expected me to stomach that really fast and ask for another. I wasn't going to.

The first 2-3 bites were more of a hunger supressant, rather than a gastronomer's delight. I could't care less. I wanted to come to the 4th bite, and fast. Wow. That tasted good. Really good.

According to normal maharashtrian standards, a Vada Pav doesnot usually last the no. of bites which I broke my 1st Vada Pav into. Standards,...ahh..Ive heard that word before. 

I asked for another Vada Pav. Didn't care that my tea was getting cold. The way it melted into my mouth after I smacked 2 large bites from it. That was the amazing part. The red masala was a chutney prepared by grinding garlic, peanuts and then simmering the mixture in a kadhai for it to attain the light reddish-browm tinge. Tasted like heaven. Even if one of the ingredients was missing, the vada pav wouldnt have tasted the way it did. On that rainy day.

That rainy day, by the side of the road, under a tarpoline covered shack. In a small town in Maharashtra.Gorging on the Vada Pav.

Mummy's Standard Time

If I be in a divulgatory mood, what might I divulge? This would do for the time being :

MST : The Acronym for mummy's standard time

Pronunciation: mu·hm·my·s  s-taa-nda-ard   t-ime

Alternative Pronunciation : mo·hm·my·s  s-taa-nda-ard   t-ime

Date:

21st century

Etymology : Not required.

After a hard day's "study" at college, we are going back home, trying to board a bus as soon as we see one. And my friend receives this call from his brother. They plan to meet up in the market for some work. And this is how they decide the time..

His Brother : "Bhaiya, I need to buy some books. How much time will it take you to reach the market ? And which bus should I take ? "

The Friend : "I have just left the faculty and am finding a bus. It will take me 45 mins to reach Central Market.Let's meet up behind Nathu Sweets at 7 o'clock MST. Take route no. 32 from Gol chowk."

Amazed at this new terminology being used, he reveals MST to be his Mummy's Standard Time. Thats the term his dad had coined in a rather funny mood because their house clocks ran an amazing half-an hour fast on the insistence of the mother. And everyone would be judged early or late based on the time on which they arrived home on mummy's clock. Amazing how mummy's rule even the time .

I remember that when I was a younger, and I had to go out of the house for any reason, be it to for evening cricket, a lunch with friends or to visit someone , I was always asked the time when I would be back. That was what I used to call "my"-mummy's standard time. I had to be well within my quilt before that deadline or be ready for an expanation and a scolding thereafter.

I managed sneaking in unnoticed sometimes , I gave a lot of good excuses the other times. But then I ran out of them . Slowly my explanations became old and worse and mummy was too bored to bother listening to any of them . She would often know the stories even before I could finish ranting with my "oh-so-sorry-I-won't-do-it-again face".

But that is how I realised the importance of MST.

That's what it always was and that's how its always going to be... !!

Hair colouring on a Scooter

Now I know people try and do strange things just to get the "look" but this one was the strangest by far. Getting your hair coloured just outside somebody's front door. And that too sitting on the backseat of a Chetak ( refer : Bajaj's brand of scooters..used to see them when we were children ).

The other day when I was coming back from the bank and I entered my lane , a very strange scene met my eye. The housekeeper of a hostel in my lane was getting his hair dyed from the guard opposite to his house.

Preety neat, I would say. All that they were doing was concentrating on the "colouring" process and not what I or anybody else for that matter , was thinking . Well I just walked past them like I do everyday. Greeted them in the usual manner. And they reciprocated in their own way. Now I was particularly fascinated by what was happening there so I decided I would continue watching them for a while. The next 5 mins I stood at my balcony and looked at them utterly amazed at the simplicity and my thoughts ventured off towards "my India.." The things that happen here..

Makes me remember the fun people have getting their hair cut under a banyan tree. Where else in the world does stuff like this happen ? Even I happened to get it done once, when I was rather young. 

In the evening , they were at the same spot talking to possibly another client and I casually walked upto them and had this pleasant converstaion. (It has to be in Hindi to keep the meaning alive)

Me : Baal kaafi kaale lag rahe hai aapke ..kya baat hai ?

House keeper : Ab ye guard sahab dye itni badiya lagate hai ki puucho mat.

Me : Itne badiya to market me betha naai bhi nahi kar pata. 

Guard : Aapne bhi apne baal dye karvane ki koshish ki thi? 

Me : Arre nahi bhaiya ! Main kyo aisa karunga ? Main to bas generally keh raha tha. Aapke haatho ka me to jaadu hai.

Guard : Thank You ji. Aap buddhe ho jaoge to muje hi bula lia karna baal dye karvaane.

Me : Kyoo nahi !! Pakka. 

And we all laughed.. 

For all of you--->>> 

GO GET YOU HAIR COLOURED ON THE BACKSEAT OF A CHETAK. and you'll know.

The Pony goes under the Axe.

My pony...oh my ponytail...why o why did it have to go??

I cannot see myself in the mirror anymore.Makes me break down.

I had made sure that I grew my hair for atleast 5-6 months ..My last haircut was in the first week of April before my submissions in the 4th sem and the next visit to the barber was scheduled to happen sometime this year but was definitely nowhere in sight..

There was no chance that my mom asked me for a haircut during my sem exams in April and May and so I managed the first 2 months. After that I managed to give my mother the lame excuse that there was no barber at the place I had gone to for my industrial internship during the summer vacations. And she fell for that. So another 2 months of long hair..

Joined back college and people started realising that my hair was terribly long...considering I had exposed them to too much of my crew cuts in the 1st year. I had good amount of hair in the 2nd year, but nothing compared to the present state of my head.

Now that mom was seeing me everyday...I knew the 'call of duty' was nearby. And so it came..the 1st one.I don't exactly remember the date though (..there are just too many to remember anyway !!) ..It must have been somewhere around the last week of July. It was rather mild.. this one.The next one came rather too soon. Got 2 'calls' in the 1st week of august. Tried appealing to Dad..he managed to get me some time. Approximately 2 weeks , during which all that mom did was to keep giving me a thousand mild reminders every other day.

Now August almost got over in these milder versions of the 'calls'. 

29th August 2008, and Rock On was released. Went and watched it First Day First Show. When I came back I demanded a head band a la Farhan Akhtar . I was so much into the movie that I didnot realise that I was asking for trouble. Well everybody at home just laughed it off as another of my frivolous demands. But September came and mummy dear started to realise that now I had hair long enough for a head band atleast. During the meantime my hair kept falling onto my face. Every day when I used to sit at the dining table , mom would be the first to notice my mane and try and extract out a date from me. A fateful date when I would make myself look more 'civilized' ( ...in her words..). She even insisted on calling a pandit for fixing up a 'shubh' muhurat for this immensely important activity.

The only time that there would be some peace at home would be when mom would see me coming out fresh from my bath, looking neat & tidy. September came and went away. Tests and fests kept me occupied the whole time and so I had little time to worry about my hair.

October 1st and 2nd. The only two days when I had a ponytail. Some of my friends who saw me with the pony were suprised at me being able to carry it off so well. They wanted me to keep it. I wanted to keep it too. But then when have things worked your way...Murphy's Law always beats me to it. "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and at the worst possible time in the worst possible way."

I never had a slice of bread

That did not fall upon the floor

and always on the buttered side.

--KS

2nd October, a Mahatma was born to liberate the people. Well, I got the ultimatum to get rid off my long hair. 

The date : 5th October,2008. The smile on the barber's face. The smile on my mother's face. And the expression on my face...they said it all. My 2-day old ponytail went under the axe, gracefully.

  RIP : Here lies a loved pony.

For those of you who never managed to see my pony...I'd say BAD LUCK.

Hägar - The Horrible

Now I have a lot of favourites when comics come into the picture, but Hagar deserves a special mention. This guy manages to make me go into convulsions .

The only place where I get to see him every morning is on page 4 of Delhi Times.

A word or two on this.Delhi Times isn't the supplement it used to be. I'd say it has lost the 'old world charm', the 'Midas Touch' . The articles lack quality and they just can't manage anybody other than Rakhi Sawant or Shilpa Shetty to pose for their shutterbugs. No more 'spice' left in the paper...its gone all 'thanda', overnight . The earlier junta of DT was much much better. Such immense efforts they put into the paper. They managed to get in such beautiful people into the pages when I wasn't even old enough to understand what beauty meant, leave alone being considered legal enough to have a glimpse of them alone. I used to love reading the paper then.

Anyway..getting back to where we started, this overweight Viking warrior (we were talking about Hagar..)  greets me every morning.

Hagar regularly goes off to invade Europe.The humor of this comic strip come from his interactions with his crew and his wife..Now Vikings are big muscled warriors..but contrary to those depictions, Hagar's first mate , Lucky Eddie is a short, naive fellow. When Hagar is not on voyage or in the tavern, he is at home with his wife Helga. 

Their son Hamlet is not usually seen in the strip, but his daughter Honi ( That name's funny..) and pet duck Kvack do try and make their place. There are a lot of other characters as well who keep zooming in and out..like Dr.Zook and Helga's pet dog...

Helga and Hagar do make a really lovable couple.

The original creator of Hagar, Dik Browne retired way back in '88 , but his son Chris has continued his legacy since then.

Ill post some of the strips for the benefit of those who haven't a friggin' clue about what this post is all about and for those souls who haven't had the opportunity of being touched by Hagar-The Horrible.