Those Kohl-Lined Eyes!

Now, who would've thought that the Navagraha temple complex in Konark would be the scene of such a cheesy post. And for me to be witnessing it at the Sun Temple is cheesier to the next level! (Karna is the mythological son of Surya, the Sun God and I happen to be named after him)
Well, strange things happen all the time, don't they?

Konark is a small town in the Puri district of Odisha, famous for the Sun Temple, carved beautifully out of Black granite. Konark derived from the Sanskrit word 'Kona' meaning angle and Arka' meaning sun was designed as a gigantic chariot of the Sun God ('Surya') on 12 wheels drawn by 7 horses. Built in the reign of Narasimhadeva-1 in the 13th Century, it isn't really a temple in the literal sense of the word, there are no pujas performed there!

While on most journeys in a small rickety bus, jam-packed to its capacity, trotting along the road and taking about an hour and half to cover the 35 km distance from Puri, you are just happy that you reached, fortunately this wasn't the case here.

The NH 203 is pristine in every sense of the word and would easily go into my list of the best highways in India to travel on. I kind of re-lived my DTC bus college days by travelling on the foot-board of the bus. Instead of the hot, polluted air and car-spangled, tar-covered Delhi roads, the National Highway 203 weaves its way along the Bay of Bengal and greets you with tree-lined esplanades, salt-laden winds and the sun's light reflecting off the waters filtering its way through the thick foliage growing in abundance along the coastline. The bus keeps dodding through the Konark-Puri Marine drive when it reaches the Chandrabhaga beach from where it takes a sharp left turn to get to Konark.

You can choose to get-off here at Chandrabhaga. The sea here is untamed at its best, compared to the quiet, docile waters in Puri. And then walk the balance 3 odd kilometres through cashew plantations on one side and a wildlife sanctuary on the other. There is even a sign somewhere which asks you to drive slowly and lookout for crossing animals.

It was the first time I was seeing cashews growing like these. The junta there isn't worried about the cashews getting plucked by touristy folk like us. That's because the cashew fruit has a very intricate method of processing to make it the edible dry-fruit that we guys are so fond of gifting on festivals. And if you try and be all experimental and dig your nails into the squishy fruit, a gooey oil-like liquid oozes out which doesn't wash off with soap and over time ruins your skin. True story! Self-experienced.
The cashew literally has to be smoked out of the fruit and dried.

When you finally get to Konark, you must walk across shacks selling the usual stuff like sea-shells, stones, temple souvenirs and 3-4 different varieties of cashews to get to the world famous monument.
The sun temple is housed in a complex which is adjoining the Navagraha temple. The temple housing the nine planetary deities on a Navagraha slab has a prophylactic effect on the safety of the temple and is housed in many temples in Odisha. Since we were there on a Saturday and it was special puja day, there was a flea market in progress in the complex to cash in on the hordes of people visiting the temple to offer prayers. You could see two worlds out there, a flawless juxtaposition of ice-cream rediwalahs and hawan-samagri toting pandits.

After having exhausted ourselves admiring the temple and me photo-bombing a million snaps being taken by unsuspecting tourists, I remember us sitting under a shady tree and gorging on mangoes and water-melon. And since mum wanted to have some roti-sabzi, we went into one of the Marwari basas just outside the temple complex. These basas are exotic entities I tell you. You are served some very genuine home-cooked food within minutes of you grabbing a seat. Its a 'jaldi khao-jaldi niklo' kinda place. And it doesn't pinch your pocket at all.

As we were getting out of the complex, we found a hand-pump to wash our faces. The constantly humid weather does start getting to all the 'born-and-brought-up-in-a-landlocked-city' guys. I had already washed up and was chatting with an uncle who after seeing me trying really hard to get the cashew fruit oil off my hands, laughed at me and then started telling me tricks to hasten the process. And there she was, a few steps away from him, gulping a golgappa and chatting animatedly with her friend, a dupatta cleverly hiding her face. All I could see were her eyes, those Kohl-lined eyes!

" Those Kohl-Lined eyes... they take your heart away!

Everytime.. everytime you see them. "

From the Engineer's Kitchen!

Ummm.. My hands smell of Metthi. 

Because I just cooked the most awesome Metthi Aloo (Potato cooked with Fenugreek). 

Basic cooking is quite like science. You get the ingredients, follow procedure and its done.

Now, that's exactly what all cookbooks will tell you. What they won't tell you is how hard it is to keep a 2 kg cookbook in your hand while you're tumbling the vegetables upside down in the kadhai (hemispherical container used to cook). And if it is borrowed, then all the tension of dirtying the pages with your oily hands. So much work. Phew!

Cooking expects you to have a basic feel for it, if not anything more. Oh.. cmon..that's just fair.!!

I've been seeing my mother cook for ages now. And my father surprisingly cooks pretty well too. His cooking is more suited to my carnivorous palate. He is good with all kinds of meat.

And I've watched with wide eyes how the Dhaba-walas stir fry their dal makhni and shahi paneer.  They know the proportion of masala that is going to give me the kick and the amount of butter to put to make me lick my fingers. Its all very instinctive. No tablespoons or measures. How the chai wala bhaiya next to my office gate just knows with experience what it takes to make the killer cup of chai with the precise amount of sugar, chai patti (read : tea leaves) and milk. His concoctions come out perfect, everytime. Oh.. and the way they play around with the flame. While the dal is left simmering on a dheeme aanch for a long time for it to get its dreamy taste.. the tadka is usually added on a high flame with a lot of movements of the pan.

So, on a cold wintery evening, 3 days into the new year,  I put all my learnings to test.

Finely chopped some metthi, washed it and put it in the kadhai. I made sure all the water had evaporated before I added oil to stir fry it. In the meantime, peeled off some potatoes, and chopped them into small pieces, not too small, not too big ( as my father pointed out). When the metthi starts sticking to the kadhai and starts developing a slight crust, I scattered the potato pieces into the kadhai, added namak, haldi and some oil and tumbled them upside down. The potatoes started getting the familiar yellowish tinge. Put a lid on the container and let it simmer.

15 minutes later, mum comes to test. And I pass. With flying colours.

The engineer shall enter the kitchen again.

P.S : Yes. I had painted my gas plate that creamish-pinkish tinge.

10,000 !

Ten Thousand ?

As I crossed the red light from the Outer Ring Road at Nehru Place towards Maa Anandamayee Marg to cover the last leg to get to my Okhla Phase-2 office, the odometer on my bike chucked to 10,000 kms. The meter really didn't put in that much effort. The wheels surely did!

I swerved to the side of the road just as the four figures changed to five, tootling amongst a BMW and a Toyota, the playthings of the rich. The earphones unapologetically blared " Ji Karda ni mera... braka laun nu.. " (-I don't feel like applying the brakes-) , a popular Punjabi track from the movie "Mere Dad ki Maruti" echoing the thoughts running through my head.

So this is what 10,000 felt like! To all the trust I had put into my Yamaha FZ! All the new places I never knew were a part of Delhi. All the folks who rode pillion with me. And finally to my getting a better handle on the routes! Biking, is the best thing I could ever have got into. I remember the first time I biked alone on the Airport-Dwarka road on a cold winter night, the chilly wind breezing past my face, the silence of the night being broken by the roar of the engine. Living, felt so real.

As I get back onto the saddle to drive the last mile to my office, I realize I haven't given my FZ a wash. A spa treatment is due. A lil bit of waxing, a lil bit of oiling and she's good to roar again! She's quite like me! Doesn't really mind not taking a bath every single day!

Eww! Didn't really have to blurt that one out! 

Making Hay!

The Puri-Satapada highway ( NH 203A) gives a whole new meaning to the term "making hay while the sun shines". 

Catch a rickety private bus from the stand on Grand Road near Gundicha mandir. The bus charges you a cool 30 Rs. and takes a behemoth 2.5 hours to cover the 48 km stretch from Puri to Satapada. 'Sata' (meaning 'Seven') and 'Pada' ( meaning 'Village'), together meaning 'a group of seven villages' for the more touristy folk is from where you can access Chilika Lake.While many have written about the wonders of Chilika, known for its Irrawaddy Dolphins, Red crabs found on the Rajhans Beachstrip separating the brackish lake from the Bay of Bengal, and the the hordes of migratory birds that visit it during the winters, it was something completely different that struck me during my journey.

Puri, surprisingly has no State run bus service. There are OTDC buses, but they only run on package tours, apart from private tour operators available for booking at every hotel/lodge. If you are a backpacker, don't make the mistake of taking them. When you are scouting for a a bus near the Grand road, the bus operators try and compete with themselves and the 'Piaggio Ape' Autowallahs, telling you that they are the only ones that leave you closest to the lake. Apparently, all of them leave you at the same spot.

Our bus ride was all about Women power. There were atleast 20 women in the 25 seater bus which managed to stuff in 50. Ladies wanting to get off in an en-route town for work, school teachers, aunties visiting relatives. All of them knew the conductor well enough for him to shake off two men from their slumber just to get seats to the ladies. Pretty girls do have their way everywhere! Seems like, we were the only tourists on the bus. And in the limelight were a village couple romancing amidst all this chaos. The guy apparently telling the girl some funny joke!
The bus makes its way through the outskirts of Puri and halts so many times to pick up or drop off passengers that you start suspecting whether it is even moving. And then it takes a 30 minute halt midway in a town called Brahmagiri, where we hop off to gorge on a local variety of mango, 1-rupee samosas and vadas and a curiously familiar-tasting sweetdish made with curdled milk selling at 25 Rs. for a pao.

One of the passengers had to eventually bad-mouth the conductor to make him get the bus back on the road. As one gets closer to Satapada, Hay, was all there was on the highway. Folks cutting it, sifting it, ladies tying it up in bundles, drying it, men on top of huts using hay stacks to construct the roof. And farms with half cut stock as far as the eye could see.

Finally when you get to Satapada, Chilika presents its windy side to you.
Chilika motor boat association wallahs keep approaching to coax you to go see dolphins for 900 Rs. for an hour and half, or even take you to the Sea mouth for an additional 600 Rs. ( P.S. I put my Sales skills to test here. The rates are highly negotiable).

There are normal boats as well which ply on the lake ferrying people to another village for 15 bucks a hop or Rs. 30 as motorbike freight.

What's more to Chilika, you ask?

Jetty to the West side. Where we had the luck to see young sailors being trained in rowing and then getting punished.
The jetty banks are a peaceful place to sit and relax. Go ahead and taste the water. Its pretty clean, but quite salty. The sun doesn't feel too hot and the salt-laden winds keep trying to push you down. We even slept off in the shade in the jetty structure for quite some time. Plus you get to capture nice clicks like the ones of this old fisherman who was trying to steer his boat against the strong winds.











In the afternoon, we decided to have lunch at the nearby OTDC Yatri Niwas which cooked really nice Egg Masala, but had salty water to drink and to wash your hands with.

For our return journey, the conductor of the bus we were about to board was promoting the LCD in his bus so proudly that both my sister and I ended up putting 'tokris' ( read 'village baskets' ) on our heads and sleeping off during the entire journey when he decided to play the Salman Khan starrer 'Garv'.

Like we hadn't had enough salt rubbed on our entire body already!

The Puri Primate!

And, the Puri beach gets me back to my love! 

Yes. Its been quite some time since I wrote. 

But 3 days of backpacking in the bylanes of this quaint little town on the East coast, and I cant happen to contain my thoughts.

The Surat Sunrise!

This has got to be a story to tell.

I was back on track! Literally, of course.

To Bombay, again. On the August Kranti Rajdhani. The train is the later Rajdhani to arrive at the Central station, the first one being the Mumbai Rajdhani which gets there about 2 hours earlier. But the August Kranti makes a lot more halts. And that is good, for me!

 

The train parked itself on the platform at around 6.20 after waiting its turn for about 15 odd minutes before the Surat station. The few minutes were exciting, nonetheless. The Sunrise. And subsequently, lots of insights into the Surat way of life. A factory complex, Dhanraj Sons displayed in big bold letters on the terrace. Surbhi Hospital, multistorey apartments, not Railway ones though, these looked like posh ones with an AC at each window, a Mandir with its distinct trail of bells resounding the morning Aarti ritual, Shyam Optics in a market complex, the sudden appearance of several tracks, the squatting junta relieving themselves, and the final entry to Surat station


Parcels scattered on the station, milk bars, food stalls, people with luggage, people without luggage, some walking vehemently, while others staring sheepishly at railway reservation boards and trying to 'fix' up a seat with the TT in the oncoming train, none sleeping though! The canvas replete with all its colours. Truly a piece of art.

I am in the alleyway next to the exits and blasts of cold air from compartments entwine with wafts of freshly cooked Dhokla at the station. Wait! Did somebody say FOOD ? My eyes scanned the station for the nearest food stall, and there it was! Stacks of Dhokla, perfectly cut to cuboids, mottled and puffy in appearance and interspersed with green chillies. Lots of them.

Dhokla ( Steamed Gram flour) - A famous Gujarati snack

Piping hot Chirwa!

Oooh there were also samosas, kachoris and 3 different variants of pakoras being scooped out of the big kadhai with a 'channi'. And there was something in a plate which I tried to match in my head with every Gujarati snack I had knowledge of. The match returned no results. I deboarded the train, got to the stall and found that the plates were full of piping hot 'chidwa'. My eyes started wandering around. I was at the food stall, after all. I suddenly looked back. The train had started moving. I quickly scampered back.

From the door, I tried to take in my last sightings! A mother was trying to pacify her son who was getting all worked up about buying a chocolate. A last glimpse as the train whistled by and the boy was holding his prize. He had won the argument, it seems. As the train crossed over a bridge, I saw down below, 2 girls riding their ladybirds. Their carefree banter still rings in my ears.

First Appraisal Jitters!

19 new emails in your inbox.

I scanned the mailbox in a half asleep metastable state, read emails from my leads, blatantly ignored the rest with a conventional line of thought that people from the other part of the world are jobless blokes who love spamming.

It was yet another usual Monday at office with the usual work, the usual conversations and the usual people. As I walked into cafeteria for lunch towards the table that boasted the youngest prisoners of this corporate giant, I couldn't help noticing skewed faces. Curious to know what happened to their otherwise stupid grins, I paced my steps and lent my ears to their frenzied voices.

"I heard a fresher never gets a 5/5."

"Chandra was saying we have to overrate ourselves in technical aptitude and functional knowledge."

"My manager and I are emotionally attached by mutual hatred."

Okay! We are troubled souls but our lunchtime banter was never this depressing. I had to break in - "What's up?"

"You look pretty cool, Ms Star Performer", retorted Sparsh.

"Jeez, I hate that tag."

"But you would showcase that in your appraisal, wouldn't you?"

"Appraisal?!"

"Lo dekho! She doesn't even read emails."

With an I-know-more-than-you smirk, I was explained, "There was this mail from Andrew Castro, our vice-president apprising everyone about appraisals. Samjhi, madam?"

Ouch! Turns out that Andrew was not a jobless spammer.

As the deadline of the appraisal form completion approached, tensions soared and faces reddened. Seasoned folks like Somali completed it in 15 minutes while overly anxious new joinees would waste their weekends pondering what answers what. Considering the fact that we were ignorant employees, a training session on Appraisal system was conducted by a HR hottie. However, my unfavorable luck sent me out of town and made me miss the invaluable knowledge imparted. Perfect timing, you see. Had I attended the training, I would have said- HR girls had decimal IQs and were consummate bores. I always have something nice to say.

On the second last day, I opened the much discussed online application. An appraisee would have to self-rate herself in 14 competencies, chalk out goals achieved in that fiscal year, answer 5 basic questions and enlist 3 appraisal participants who would further rate her. At the end, employees would be adjudged by a digit in the range of 1-5, 5 being the highest.

Rating oneself was quite easy; the challenge was justifying your rating. To make things knotty, what was expected from the appraisee was already described at length in front of each competency which left little scope to over-rate. All I could think at that time was creative expletives for the HR team, purveyors of head-ache and restlessness.

Mustering the little energy left at the end of day and with degraded writing skills, I set to complete the task at hand. After three painstaking hours I concocted phrases like ‘Prioritized assigned work as per escalations and severity’, ‘Complied with existing processes and kept abreast with new developments’ , ‘Proved as a fast learner and could apply basic classroom concepts and ramp up at a good pace’ - so on and so forth. In just three hours, I had taken important decisions of my life – the purpose of my career, short term and long term goals, areas to improve on – all answers which were non-existent till that momentous day. Out of the blue, my least satisfying aspect of job changed from cafeteria food to missed learning opportunities. There was an innate sense of beauty in the sheer hollowness and falsity of my statements. That day, I left office with a triumph.

Next day, Sangeeta came running to my seat. Let me introduce you to Sangeeta – a colleague who would call you a friend only in the times of need.

“Hi! That bitch assigned me high priority work… blah blah blah … can you show me your appraisal form?”

“Why? What didn’t you understand?”

“What did you write in this question… … Please, can you show me your form?”

“Okay. Just see it once, don’t copy. At least, change the words.”

In a blink of an eye, she copy pasted my entire template. Wow! Can you beat me in foolishness?

One month later, my manager came all the way from Atlanta just to discuss appraisals with his immediate directs. If only he could cut down on travelling expenses, restricted to economical video conferences and saved team budget for hikes and bonuses. Alas! No one listens to my ideas.

My ex-manager and current manager met over a smoke and I was one of the topics of discussion. “She is a 5/5, critical for my team”, said my manager. How do I know this was said? It is the same way I know which department guy is dating which department girl. Office gossip network never falters!

Thus came my Judgment Day. I sat tensed in front of my appraiser, wondering what was going in his head. Finally, he starts, “You are a very good performer, you have done good work. You like your job very much, don’t you?”

My jaw line broke into a smile and inane words spurted out, “Not very much, sometimes it is monotonous.”

There was a long pause followed by, “So, let us start with goal accomplishment and then go back to competencies.”

“Okay, the way you say. All questions sounded similar to me or maybe I had the same answer.”

Oh yes! I said that. Something was definitely wrong with me. I felt like Jim Carrey in the court-room scene in the movie, Liar Liar.

I decided to shut my big mouth. For fifteen minutes, my manager went on saying things that were already known to me. Towards the end, he got bored and decided to take a fun pop quiz.

“Is there some area I can improve upon?”

“Do you have any special requests?”

And the most lethal of all, “How much would you rate yourself, out of 5?”

After many umms and errs, I said he could talk more often to us, requested a leave for Diwali but couldn’t answer the lethal one. To that, I said it was his job as an appraiser to rate me.

Tell me dear reader, haven’t I done enough by completing that form and sharing it with the Sangeetas of my world!

Another long pause followed. “Okay child, you have exceeded expectations. I would rate you 4/5 and I wish you continued success at work. Keep up the good work.”

With that we were done, my 5/5 crashed to 4/5 and so ended my first appraisal jitters.

The Cab in the 'Cab'-inet !

They are the meanest, not quite the leanest !

And if you aren’t used to break neck speeds, screeching halts, and the nastiest maneuvers on the tar, your bowels are in for some shock! Some might call this an epiphany to the Ambassadors in Calcutta. I call it a tribute to the craziest rides Ive ever had.

These yellow soldiers aren't comparable to the speedsters on the F1 circuit in raking pure numbers on the tachometer! But they were built to do things Bernie Ecclestone wouldn't even dare to!
Hindustan Motors built these Ambassadors strong. Calcutta being the largest consumer, they apparently have a factory nearby where you'll find these taxis on the assembly line.

Ive been to Calcutta twice now!

June 2010 and April 2011. The city never ceases to amaze me. The food, the sights, the river, the people, or the laidback attitude. That's the best part actually. I need to learn the I-know-I-am-lazy-but-I-don't-give-a-damn perspective! And don't get me wrong, but they do get their work done almost always.

But one thing that you can never miss are these taxis zipping by! ' Yellow colour + Huge size + Super fast maneuvering '. And they will always go by the meter.

While in the taxi, I've managed to have detailed discussions on the economics of driving a 'stone-age cab in a modern world' and the drivers have always convinced me that although a little high on maintenance, the 21st century cars don't even last a fraction of the years that these Ambassadors will. And the worst of accidents will just etch a tiny scratch somewhere on the body. These were made with hard-forged, furnace-baked Iron and Steel, not with cheaper, lighter alternatives, fitted by tender, gentile assembly line robots. Plus the super powerful engine, it roars! Make it climb mountains, make it race sedans!


Sad, that in India's capital city, you'll only see these beauties at the Railway station, the Airport or ferrying unsuspecting ministers in and out of the Parliament. They've become the exclusive rides of the neta-log and the babus! They've reached where very few manage to. Into the Cab-inet! I remember having driven my grandad's Fiat Premier Padmini when I was young. It was the time when the Ambassador was in vogue. Those were the days when the cars really had 'muscle'. And the driver needed to have a lot of' muscle' too, to be able to toggle around with the super hard mechanical steering and gear shifters.

But they would always take you to "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe", if you wanted!

The Fiat Premier Padmini

Catching the 4.20

What is the gamut of emotions that you feel when you are bang in the middle of this humongous traffic jam in Connaught Place and there is a train you’ve to catch in 20 minutes?

June 7, 2010.

That’s when I had to catch the 12382 Poorva Express to Calcutta at 4.20 in the afternoon.

Monday it was and as usual I hadn't put in anything into my bags on the weekend. Copious amounts of prodding from my mother had just led me to stack a pair of clothes that I intended to carry with me. Some packing, some fretting, a heavy lunch, a little more fretting, a little more packing and a lazy siesta later it was 3.15.

There was stuff to be copied from my computer onto my laptop, books to be packed in, clothes to be stuffed, lunch to be had, packed dinner to be taken along and mid-afternoon CP traffic to be negotiated. We had planned to leave for the station at 3.30. But the darn 'Copying..' popup on the computer was showing 30 mins.



Ok. I could get everything ready by that time. In the next 5 mins, I stuffed in whatever I could from my stack of 'clothes to be carried', threw in a dozen books and did the icing with some toiletries that I needed. Sad, that the coming 10 mins had to be me jumping on the stuffing so that the luggage could be zipped up. Ran to the bathroom, came running out. There was a cat there. A cat ? What was she doing there ... Wildlife running askew in the household. Must be the smell from the T-shirt that I spilled milk on. Bah!
Had to scare the poor girl away. Not today sweetie.. I have a train to catch..!

Apparently my PC in all its wisdom had thought of running faster today, so it was done in 20 mins. I stuffed my laptop in, tagged my bag along, rolled up the chappati, bowed to the deity and rushed out of the house. 15 mins later we were entering Janpath. Not bad I thought. Its 3.50. Another 10 mins and we would be at the station.

But the traffic just wouldn't budge. We were in the Outer circle and the CWG construction seemed to be the reason for this non-negotiable hold-up. Calm down.. calm down .. another 5 mins.. atleast the traffic is moving.

I looked out of the window at the plethora of cars all lined up in perfect symmetry honking and blaring red lights at the same time.
I had wanted to go to Cal in the sleeper class. That's what an actual train journey is supposed to be. Not the comfort of the 3AC coach. You don't know you're traveling in a train unless you get your nostrils filled with fresh air and dust from 5 odd states. Plus no Rajdhani for me this time. They always travel the night shift so you don't get to see outside the window like a 10 year old with your mouth wide open admiring the people and the places as they go by and you're at your destination when you get up in the morning. Useless! I was in no hurry to reach my destination. I had booked the Poorva since it was the fastest Express train and arrived in Cal at a decent time.

The horn blared unsympathetically one more time!
Go .. Go.. Go.. ! But the Swift in front of us just wouldn't move. Oh.. Its red again. It was 4.10 already. We are never going to make it on time. We were close to Chelmsford Road. We would run towards the station from the outer circle and enter from the Paharganj Side. My mother stayed in the car while Dad and I took out the luggage from the trunk and started hopping around the slow-paced cars. We reached Chelmsford road, hopped onto a rickshaw and reached the station .

5 mins to go.
Before running up the stairs, we managed to steal a glance at the big screen to see which platform to dash for. The weight of the bag was taking its toll now, I was beginning to pant. We paused for a moment amongst coolies and harried passengers getting in and out of the station. There it was. The Poorva Express parked majestically on the platform. We ran down the stairs of the foot-over-bridge and tried to locate my coach. Amidst a hurl of abuses, I squeezed out of a rank of people lined-up, waiting to get into the General compartment of the next train.

And I was in. Located my seat. Sat down. Both my Dad and I were sweating and panting. There were curious glances from fellow passengers, but we were both smiling.
We had just hopped around 2 dozen cars, chariot raced a Rickshaw on the Chelmsford road like Roman warriors, and carried 35 kg of luggage while dashing through a jamboree of people.
It was 4.20. The train gave a nasty jolt, unhappy at being woken up from its slumber. I bid goodbye to my dad.

This was going to be some adventure!

The Curious Case of the Open Lace!

Its rather terse , I warn.

I have been wanting to tell you this from times forlorn.
Every morning when I am scrambling to the stop,
to catch the bus to the metro and hop.
I stop and notice that my laces have come off
I stand and I wonder if I had even tied them on.

I scratch my head

I remember the clue
when I was stuffing the sandwich and tying the shoe.

Sometimes I wait, sometimes I don't
for I am too lazy or sometimes on the phone.
So the laces flow like a doggy's tail
but I carry on, for I am always late.

Moments later I hop off the metro and swipe the card
to sit in a Grameen Sewa Auto which is a "10 by 10" cart.
Filled with people to the brim who enjoy a rambly ride
10 road bumps later, I have to go to my cubicle and hide.
For if my boss sees the clock
he is sure to give me a firing on the spot.

I get to the office all queasy and panting
after running up the stairs and wishing the madam good morning!
I switch on my PC to check for new mail
but find that my laces have come off yet again.

So my routine is pretty routine
but I've yet to ask thee
if I can figure this out before I turn twenty three!

Shoe Shopping!

I am officially an ASS when it comes to shopping! More so.. when it is Shoe-Shopping!

Darn things are so hard to choose! There's a red one, one with a bow, the twitchy strap-ed one, the one with a 2 tonne sole, and the one with a real hard frontal which is known euphemistically to be "unkind" to the person who might be involved in a brawl with the owner of the pair.

So when the mochi bhaiya said he just couldn't put any more stitches on the body and amputating another piece of leather to give it a lil more life would tantamount to barbarism, I had to let go of my favourite pair of shoes :-( ! They all end up being my favourites, I tell you! There has not been a single pair that I bought that I have loved any less. Precisely the reason I give my parents why I take so much time to shop for them. "Shop" ?? Please.. how rude can that be.. I 'hand-pick' those babies..! ;-)



Apparently I was off to Chennai in a few days, so that hurried up the decision to pay a visit to my shoe-shopping addas, Yusuf Sarai & Sarojini Nagar the same evening. My mother, apparently wary of the time I took in selecting a pair, decided to give the visit a skip, citing "kitchen-work" as a reason. Hello! When did women get so bad at lying... Kitchen work stopping women from going to a place full of shops & clothes ?? Bah...!

We skipped Yusuf Sarai this time and headed straight to SN Market. Scouting the shoe-shops on the periphery gave us an idea as to what was “in” this season.
After 5 odd shops, I decided that we shouldn’t waste time and go to our usual shop. So we negotiated the Friday night rush of people, briskly walking to our destination.
Now, SN Market crowd is a curious mix of people.
1. There will be the one-odd gora-gori couple being festooned by “original leather belt” and “Rayban Aviator” salesmen, like honeybees crowding around a flower;
2. then there will be the group of single boys and girls window shopping and giggling;
3. the family junta with the daddy, mummy and 2 kids (or more) going into toy shops and electronics stores;
4. the group of auntyji’s or the recently married couple seen hogging on golgappas and chaat pakori, anything for that matter;
5. the 20ish something boyfriend-girlfriend group with the BF tagging along the GF to clothes stores;
6. and yes there are women going into Chacha Saree Bazaar as well.

For one, Sarojini Nagar Market and the adjoining Babu Market has like a billion shops for the female species. You just land there and kick me if you don’t find yourself buried under a pile of suits, blouses, sarees, kurtas, kurtis, shorts, tank-tops, tube-tops, and the gazillions other knick-knacks that you girls love donning or blinded by the colours that hit you straight in the face. I am sure, the salesmen there will convince you to buy a suit piece atleast, even if you are like a 60 year old bachelor with no prospects of female company, whatsoever. And OK! I donot know the difference between a kurta and kurti.. Agreed!

So after negotiating several lanes, by-lanes, under-the-tree chaiwallahs, & Cycle momowallahs, we managed to get into the shop that was going to be our respite from the menagerie that Sarojini Nagar becomes on a weekend. The owner knew me well to the point of my eccentric decision making skills. He was calm! He knew I would take my time! I scouted the racks for that one pair that could capture my attention. Rows after rows, shoe after shoe.. I rummaged through several and even tried a few pairs . . . but none felt good enough. Some were not my style, some not comfortable, some not available in my size. My dad & sister finally thought that we needed a change of environment and that we should head elsewhere. They bid the shopkeeper goodbye, who from the corner of my eye heaved a sigh of relief at his most pesky and finicky customer finally walking out.

I then ran my hands through stocks of 10 more shoe shops. Then... suddenly at the 10th shop I spotted a pair in red & black, just the perfect styling, simple yet elegant, not overdone one bit and rugged as hell to withstand the monstrosities that I would be doleing out. It was the perfect candidate to be on my feet. Oooooh! I immediately asked the bhaiya for one in my size to try on and definitely take back home with me. "27 wala design 8 number me diyo" the sales guy called out and the guy above us in the ceiling stock room began shifting boxes. I looked over to my side and saw boxes being flung by the stock room guy over the heads of unwary customers and it still managed to hit none of them. Classic old-school skill!

After a few tense moments of crossed fingers, it came down to the fact that they did not have one in my size and the stock wouldn't be around for another 2 weeks. I was ready to wait, but my folks were looking at me like they would strangle me if I didn't buy one today. So I tried getting my feet into the shoe size that was there, but it just wouldn't get in, how much ever pushing or shoving I did. So we walked out of another store!

I had lost all hope of finding my pick today. After close to 3 hours, we were back to where we had started. Shopkeepers were starting to haul down shutters. My eyes went up to the glowboards that dotted the Sarojini Market skyline. Quetta Store, The Nike Store, Chacha Saree Bazaar, Samsung Electronics, Bata Store. We had crossed the Bata showroom twice that evening, but had decided against going inside. We went in this time. I browsed through the designs. There was this one all-black sneaker, that I kinda took an instant liking to. A pair came out in my size. Tried it on. Fitted perfectly. Comfortable! I paid ! And we were off! The Quest had ended! My daddy and sister raised their heads towards the sky and thanked the Gods!

After skimming through 230 odd pairs, Karan had finally found his match!

Up in the Air & ..uh.. Cuckoo!

The plane starts taxiing to one end of the runway while the crew doles out sermon after sermon on how to save your puny ass when this giant flying bird feels sick. I liked the part where the oxygen mask falls onto your head. I might as well take a swig of the oxygen right now and get high. Yes, pure oxygen will give you a high. Medically proven!

While I sit ruminating, the plane jolts to a stop and readies itself to give me a high. The engines blare out in full throttle, spewing gallons of air every second, and the plane is off, sparing no moment of rest to the Odometer which races to lift speed when the plane leaves the ground. Now I understand why people want to drive a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano or the classic Lamborghini. The speed, the acceleration take you to places where others cannot. The thrill of the G-forces kicking in and making your blood travel up and down. Woooah! I am now 35,000 ft in the air, passing over what seems like an endless canvas of fields, houses and huts that seem like blips down below and my ears keep popping in and out. Rivers, highways and railroads cut across this canvass with ease, and I wonder what would Golgappas at this height taste like? Would an open Golgappa and Aloo-chaat counter in a plane be an interesting notion? Or would this addition in cuisine be the cause of more panic than the convenience it offers to crazy street food loving people like me?


Up in the Air. And thinking about Food! Bloody one – track mind!

The sun seems bright, alright, shining away to glory! And the clouds down below make for nice cushions I would definitely want in my bed. And why not! I have a taste for luxury.

Oh Shut up! I really do!

The Joys of Freshly Toasted Bread!

I had to put this picture up! Just to keep myself from going into the kitchen again and toasting a few more slices! I am a total sucker for Bread and Butter! And freshly toasted bread.... ooooh baby! I'd die for it!

Its been my childhood love I'd confess! History dates this unusual obsession with the fluffly flour preparation to 1998 A.D. We used to have a red-colored "National" toaster. I remember mummy preparing toasted bread and serving it to us with our evening milk. I would just love the butter melting on the hot bread. We would then lick it off from the face of the bread. Ahha!

The toaster gave up after some years and we shifted to toasting breads on the "tawa" (the pan on which you make chapattis/rotis) ! The tawa-toasted ones have a very sizzler-ey touch to them. You spread butter on a bread piece and put its buttered face on the hot tawa. It pops and sizzles, gets the ethereal yellow-brown colour and the butter gets soaked right in. Delicious, I tell you! By the time I grew up, I had perfected my own technique, since I always felt that the traditional tawa toasting consumed a lot more butter and the 'zaika' wasn't really there. But Tawa toasted breads have been an integral part of my evening milk snack since ages yore.

2010 A.D. My appetite for the tawa toasted ones had jaded. Plus 2010 saw the "Return of the Toaster". Two incidents worth remembering..
1. Sam's place after a Dil Chahta Hai watching night saw us preparing our morning snack on his toaster which just wouldn't pop up the bread and which had the uncanny knack of giving the bread eaters electric shocks when you tried to be smart with it..

2. After our last exam we headed to Zee's place before he could leave for Amreeka. And we were hungry. Atleast I was. On our way in the metro, when I was warning Zee on the phone that he better have something for us to eat, otherwise he should get ready for a fridge raid, a pretty girl sitting beside me even offered me a full burger. And she wouldn't budge to my saying 'No'. So I ate it. How many times do you see that happening ?
We finally reached Zee's place and made hay till the loaf of Harvest Gold lasted. We even rationed off the little butter cubicle that was left.

This transformed me into a 3 year old tantrum-throwing kid. The tantrums did pay off though! And we finally bought a toaster during Diwali. And Ive been happily snacking myself on the produce.

P.S. I am feeling hungry now. Bread- Butter calling.
P.P.S. People who know me well, know that the way into my heart is through Toasted Bread! ;-)
P.P.P.S And for the final time.. NO.. I don't own a "Hello Kitty " Toaster!

Making the Railway Junta read!

A.S Wheeler and Co. The name synonymous with books at railway stations. Conspicuously seen as a wheeled cart or as a shop with stacks of books, “Wheeler” has been literally making the railway junta read. Tacitly, of course!

The Wheeler kiosk at Howrah Station

I noticed this small revolution on wheels on my first journey by train some 6 years back, at the Jalandhar station. How ironic it is that one does not notice most things at one’s home station. Clearly, the reason why I never saw it at the New Delhi, Old Delhi or Hazrat Nizammudin Stations. Not to overwhelm you guys, but there are a dozen more stations in Delhi, just that I've never boarded a train from them.

I get off the train at the Jalandhar station and Wheeler is the first thing I notice at the station apart from the mindbogglingly clean state the station is in. No, seriously! I cannot say that about other stations, but you've got to see the Jalandhar and Amritsar stations. They are no model stations. The toilets there are bad as well. But there isn't a speck of dust to be found on the platform. You are scared of setting your foot on the platform for the fear of setting off a certain turbaned gentleman. But 'sardarji', that is the only way I get to alight and deboard the train.

Now If I am at the station, and I have to wait for a train, I am like a restless 5 year old. You literally have to catch hold of my hand and make me sit down. And Jalandhar was no different. I was there roaming and 'dirtying' (according to the huge 'sardarji') the platform. So after parrying off the gallons of free-flowing abuses in 'theth' punjabi ( 'th' in 'theth' pronounced as 'th' in 'thanda' pani) even my dad would have difficulty understanding, I settled behind the Wheeler kiosk with a version of Ramayana I had never seen before.

Unable to hold my attention, I put the book right back. I settled with a famous Hindi comic which I was seeing after ages. What I was more amazed with that day was the the collection of books that the kiosk was carrying. There were 1st hands, 2nd hands, 3rd hands, 4th hands of authors ranging from Enid Blyton to Jefferey Archer to Indian authors. There were magazines in regional languages, newspapers, religious books, there was just everything there. And there were people there too. Reading, browsing and purchasing. Wheeler had made this possible. In a country where the accessibility of clean water is a question we have to answer everyday, Wheeler had made sure that there were no brows raised when it came to easy and cheap access to reading material. They were at least making the junta at railway stations read. Not a small number any day, taking into account the number of people who use the rail network.

We might be crying our throats hoarse on TV channels about making a change, and here there were Wheeler and Higginbothams ( What Wheeler is in the North, East & West; Higginbothams is in the South) already doing that. With most of us unaware. Even of their name! And they've been doing it since ages. From the time of our grandparents and even before. The world wide web might reach any corner of the world, but Wheeler and Higginbothams will always be there, making an impact felt in a way our "Web 2.0-addicted-brains" will never understand!

P.S Although I've gone on to rant about my first tryst with Wheeler, and the fact that I've seen it at almost 10 other stations I've been to, the idea to pen this down struck my thick-skinned cranium only when I saw the Higginbothams kiosk at Chennai Central. Cheers to that!

Naeem Bhai ki Biryani!

Amongst all the faculties and centres of Jamia Millia Islamia, the Faculty of Engineering and Technology will unequivocally serve you the best biryani! That is where all the students turn up when they feel like having Chicken Biryani! Yes..! At the engineering faculty canteen run by Naeem Bhai. He and his crew dole out plate after plate of this mouth smacking delicacy every afternoon during lunch time ( till whatever time the stocks last.. Experience says that they usually don't!)

The last time we had biryani before we graduated.

So its been what.. like 4 years.. that Ive been hooked onto this rice preparation. Its a sinfully rich preparation I tell you, with all the masala and the flavours that it embodies..

I remember the first time that I had biryani at the canteen. I was pretty ignorant of its existence in the 1st few weeks of my college. Only somewhere in October did I come to realise that there was this one corner of the canteen where there was always a mad gathering. Not like my catneen was huge or anything.. but this corner was always noticeable with its mannerisms.
And this used to be the one catering the Chicken Biryani.

A stout guy, we lovingly addressed as 'Montu Bhai' was there with a saucer in his hand to dish out the rice preparation from a huge 'pateela' ( hindi for container used to boil milk in) and hand it out. And the junta was jumping over one another to get him to hand out a plate to them before the stock got over.
So I thought.. "I need to try this out." I purchased a token and got into the crowd just to get my hand onto a plate of biryani. It was the October of 2006 then and it is going to be the October of 2010 now and Ive never ever gotten over its taste. It was 15 Rs. then and it is 25 Rs. now. But it has always been one of the best things Ive had at my canteen. The helping was so decent that one plate was all it took to satiate your taste buds. And it was hot as hell! You could opt for a less spicy version as well, but you had to tell 'Montu Bhai' before he started moving his hands inside the pateela. Because once he began, there was absolutely no stopping him. His speed used to amaze me. 10 plates dished out in 30 odd seconds. This guy was fast.

Being a Muslim university, it was normal for almost all faculty canteens to be serving biryani. But it was the Engineering faculty canteen and Naeem Bhai's biryani that was famous. We had people coming in from far and near. And if you were late to arrive , you always knew it was over. 300 odd plates dished out in less than an hour.

Infact, I got my gang hooked onto Biryani and "Meetha samosa".
Anytime I was out of class, my friends knew where to find me. I was in the canteen hogging biryani or meetha samosa. Ohh I so loved it. It was just one of the many things that I loved about Jamia.
Naeem Bhai is still there running the canteen and so is Montu bhai dishing out the ' chicken biryani' to the junta at the Faculty of Engineering and Technology, Jamia Millia Islamia. Go try it out!

P.S. Maybe you'll still find me there, in formals though, taking a well deserved lunch break from office, reminiscing all the good times over a plate of biryani.