Of Summer and Its Addictions

Isn’t it amazing how every year, when summer comes on, people will point it out to you? They’ll hold their collar and shake it vigorously and say, ‘Yaar, it’s so hot, na?’

Like they’re just back from a 12 year vacation to Pluto and realised how hot it is in India in summers. It is summer, guys. It will be hot. Get over it.

 

I got over it long ago. Years ago, in my childhood, Bhubaneswar was notorious for ‘Sunstrokes’. It was the first time I had come across the word – sunstroke. I imagined that the sun would smile down warmly on a person, there would be a blinding flash of light, and the man would drop dead right there. Later, I learnt it is a heartbreakingly painful process. The person would first dehydrate, and then die as every drop of water in his body dried up, minute by painful minute.

But all of this wouldn’t affect me one bit. For I had just learnt how to ride a bicycle.

There are very few joys in the world compared to learning to ride a bicycle for the first time.

There is a sense of freedom, of joy, your bicycle being your horse, and of the world being your playground. There are no limits to your enthusiasm, your imagination, and the heat of the summer is but another obstacle – to be trampled upon and left behind.

And since I had just learnt the fine art of riding a cycle, I didn’t want to step inside the house. And so I was given a simple solution – Tie a wet cloth around your head if you want to step out.

The intention was to keep my head cool, wet and dehydrated. But what really happened was a combination of many things:

a)    Children and elders alike sniggered when I crossed them, a wet towel wrapped around my head.

b)    The cloth began to smell damp and funny after a point.

c)     The dampness around my head would result in me feeling dizzy after half an hour, and I would return to the house.

 

Again, this was a time when there was no internet, no cable television (since I was being honed to become a good citizen of the country), no cricket happening.

And all through the summer, I felt a strange thirst.For liquids. An insatiable need for liquid to run down my parched throat.

My hunt led me on to the roads in the afternoons. And the options in front of me were not very vast. And yet, I didn’t shy away from trying them all out.

 

Firstly, there was Sugarcane Juice.

Back then, it was just two rupees, and it wasn’t very difficult to flick two rupees lying around the house and run out to the shop. It was cool, sweet, and affordable.

But then, it had its problems too. You can’t have more than two glasses of it. If you did, you’d have a sticky, sweet feeling. Like your lips have been chapped together by a weak adhesive gum.

And then there were the health issues involved with sugarcane juice. Friends telling you that they’d seen a man keeping his sugarcane in a ditch to make it fresh and juicy. And another friend telling you that his cousin had died of food poisoning from sugarcane juice. Also, after two glasses, your body craved some water, or some salt, or chillies.

And so, I struck sugarcane juice out of my list.

 

Then came the Tender Coconut.

It is cool, and healthy. No one had any horrific tales to narrate about tender coconuts. They were just tender nuts that had a sweet juice inside of them. Problem is, I wasn’t the only one who had realised this truth. And this resulted in the price of tender coconuts rising not so tenderly.

It was five rupees when I was a child. And then in a few years, it was ten rupees. And then, it was fifteen rupees, and then twenty, twenty-five, and thirty. And me with my money nicked off from home, would never be able to catch up in that race.

 

Golas, I have never been fond of.

Firstly, I had only seen it in films and TVs. Of people sucking on golas and chuskis and having fun. In Orissa, we never really had golas for a long time. And when they finally arrived, what a massive colourful disappointment they turned out to be!

It was the same chapped feeling between my lips that I felt after having one. Also, it took about 20 minutes to finish one. Any quicker, and your jaws felt like a yeti had smooched you and run its tongue inside your mouth.

Golas didn’t do it for me.

 

Cool drinks, I was never fond of. Of course, I got enamored by ads and wanted to have a wonderful, bubbly, soft drink in the middle of summer – just like they showed me in those ads.

But every soft drink in the world is the same for me. I enjoy the first two sips and the rest of it seems like a punishment.

Ice creams never worked for me in any which way. Whether it was the Chocobar, or the cups, or the Cassatas, or the expensive ones. None of them did anything for me. All I felt at the end of the ice cream was sticky hands, a sticky mouth, and a sweet aftertaste in my mouth that wouldn’t go even if I ate a live chicken.

 

Which left me with the only other option. Buttermilk.

Buttermilk is one of those things in life you cannot have any complaint against. It could be made thick or thin, spicy or sweet. It is healthy, inexpensive, and easy to prepare.

Needless to say, I was addicted.

But then, I realised that the dynamics of buttermilk-making had a larger role to play. It wasn’t as simple as taking buttermilk, adding spices, chillies, coriander leaves, some ginger, some black salt, and mixing them all together.

I realised that different places have different ways of preparing buttermilk. At home, they’re always overdoing it. They make it thicker than it should be, just to pander to some idea of ‘healthy, wholesome home food’, killing the end result in the process. And like mother’s hamburgers, mothers’ buttermilk is never the real thing.

Others would add too much salt, too less chillies, or not black salt at all. Temples would keep it satwik, adding no ginger at all. There were ‘jalachhatras’ – free water/buttermilk pots that were kept in the open, as a form of social service. These guys made the buttermilk too thin, in an obvious attempt to save money while saving lives.

When I was posted at the KIIT International School in Bhubaneswar, there was a stall that gave out free water and buttermilk. Even if it was light, it was delicious. And I shamelessly hung out there, having 5-6 glasses a day.

And yet, it wasn’t perfect for me. It was a little light, and come summer, I would begin my hunting for the perfect buttermilk.

Everywhere I went, I looked for the perfect buttermilk.

And everytime, I was disappointed. Vijaya, the state-run milk company in Andhra Pradesh wasn’t very good. It was too thick, as if the state was doing its bit to prove the purity of their cows and their milk.

Omfed, the state-run milk federation in Orissa skimmed over the chilly and ginger, making for a drink that seemed hollow in its taste. And I went from this place to that, looking for the perfect buttermilk every summer.

And then, a few weeks ago, I found it.

Jersey milk.

It’s a private company that has its operations in Andhra Pradesh. Like all other milk companies, its logo has a smiling cow as its logo.

It cost 6 rupees, and when I slit the packet open, I realised that my hunt for the perfect buttermilk was over.

Inside, stirred up in the perfect way humanly possible, was buttermilk, salt, chilly, coriander leaves, and black salt. It was so perfect that I didn’t even have to shake well before use.

And that is how I spend my summers these days. Hunting for Jersey Buttermilk in every shop, store, or mall that I come across.

And summer is hot, and sticky and sweaty and all of that.

But what do I care? I am addicted, and my fix costs me 6 rupees.

Autowallah

Excluding cops and politicians, could you think of another profession which is hated by most people?

Doctors are hated, mostly because people feel they are overcharging, and most Indians will never really hire a lawyer in their lives, so those don’t count. Cricketers are sometimes hated, but one good series, and you go from the national punching bag to the successor of Rajni Kanth. So that’s ruled out too. So which profession do you think is most hated?

I would say auto drivers.

There is generally a sense of mistrust about them. It’s like they are all charging four times their price and they will all take you through unknown routes, and finally kill you in a desolate corner.

Now, you could blame me for being overromantic about it. “You don’t have boobs,” you say. Yes, I am not a girl, so maybe I don’t have to face so many of the fears. I know for a fact that no autowallah is going to try to rape me, for one. So that’s half the worries gone.

But if you think about it, it’s a neverending cycle of distrust. People don’t speak to auto drivers properly, and so they don’t either, and both of you go on mistrusting and mistreating each other.

I have always had good luck with auto drivers.

If you speak to them a little, some small talk, you will see how well they come about.

Think about it, these guys have been riding the entire day, getting barked at by customers and pulled up, charged, and shooed away by lecherous cops, and being cursed at by co-commuters on the road. May be you cant blame the guy for not being polite to you. May be you could say something to him.

I have had countless number of experiences with autowallahs, but here I would like to narrate three of them.

 

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Ahmedabad.

The city without booze. For the reason that Gandhi was born there. The greatest bullshit story ever told and believed and not raised a glass to. Because you know, its illegal.

So since Gandhi is the father of the nation, as a sign of respect, no body drinks alcohol. Reducing possibly the most revolutionary thinker of the last century into a symbolic joke.

But anyway, I am just small fish. I have no reason to take up that man with the white beard who is going to become the Prime Minister. I have gone to visit my girlfriend, and am getting a look at the city for the first time.

There is something distinct about the autos of every city. There will be a style, a certain fashion that sets them apart from the autos of other cities. Like for example, in Kurnool, the front of the auto, to the right of the light, will have a painting of a star. One look at the auto and you knew if he was a fan of NTR, Chiru, Pavan Kalyan, or Mahesh. In the older parts of Hyderabad, there is always a quote written at the back of the autos. Like ‘Maa Baap ki Dua’, or ‘Hum Phir Se Milenge’.

In Ahmedabad, all the autos have a set pattern. From the outside, you notice nothing different. The usual yellow and black, with nothing to set it apart. But step inside, and to the left of the passenger seat, you will find a poster with a scenery.

One of those ‘God makes the world beautiful’ or ‘Live every day like your last’ or some other quote written on the top right hand corner of a picture with a waterfall or a house by the lake. That kind of stuff.

To the right, there will be a poster of an actress. No collage, no cut pasting, no wide variety of photos – just one poster. Of one actress. I guess they are really steadfast people, you know. Unlike the guys in Hyderabad who must be a little weird – there are pictures of at least three actresses, with two heroes thrown in for a wild fantasy.

But here, it’s just one poster of an actress, and that’s it.

So I have noticed this and one of the days we plan to step out to go sightseeing. Because anyway I cant booze or eat chicken, I might as well go watch some nature and shit.

So we are going to the place and we pull up an auto and ask him if he would go to the place.

He is not young, neither is he old. If I were to describe his face, I would do it like this.

Remember those pictures of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa that you saw as a child. Hollow cheekbones and a beard? Replace the black beard with a white one, and you have somewhat of an image of the man’s face.

He didn’t speak a lot, he didn’t switch on the loud music seeing a hot chick enter his auto. He just started driving.

It was a clean auto, well maintained. There were no odd sounds coming out of it – no odd  tinkering symphony of undisciplined nuts and bolts that come from other autos.

I look at my left, and I find the poster of a scenery. The usual. I look to the right, and I find there is no actress. Its just blank!

I start making conversation with him, but he clearly isn’t the chatty person.

He grudgingly starts speaking to me, dealing in monosyllables and nods.

“Bhai saab,” I ask him, “Aap ke auto mein heroine nahi hai?”

He turns to me, and gives me a bored look. The kind of look Sachin Tendulkar would give Ajit Agarkar’s son if he asked him what ‘off side’ means.

“Meri heroine,” he says, “mere ghar pe hai.”

We eventually reached the spot. The sun eventually set on my relationship. But I hope wherever the man is, he is making wild, passionate love to his wife every night.

 

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Hyderabad.

I have just arrived, and am still trying to figure out things. Where to buy cigarettes, where to buy groceries from, where to get some weed from.

It’s not like Orissa, where your friendly neighbourhood pan shop is going to give you a packet with a smile. It’s a new place and I haven’t yet met anyone who was smoking.

My friend and me decide to do the first that thing that great explorers do. Look up Google.

We are told that we need to speak to an auto guy, and he would take us there. To this place called Dhoolpet. It was also mentioned that we better be careful about the guy we choose, to avoid being reported or fleeced.

How would we go about it? We spoke about some strategies. We would first ask him to take us to a place nearby, and then slowly ease into the conversation about some weed, and see if it works out. But wait, what if he throws us out of the auto, and we are stranded in a new place, having paid two hundred bucks?

May be we should ask from the beginning. Feel around for ourselves, say the place, and then ask him if he wants to go there. Then speak nicely to him, may be offer a cigarette, and then he would warm up to us.

After considerable time spent in strategizing, we walk downstairs to the place where the autos stand. The first guy we see, has his hand stretched out, and is filling up an empty cigarette.

“Kahaan jaana?”

We both point out like excited children, “Woh chahiye”. He smiles, and asks us to sit.

We wait and watch as he fills up the cigarette, taps it on the nail of his left thumb, folds the open ends and runs his fingers along its length. When he is done, he lights it, and we start off.

We speak to him. More out of curiosity than ulterior motives this time.

He speaks freely, looking at us in the rear view mirror while speaking. He speaks of the things most auto drivers speak about. Cops, and what assholes they are. Rising petrol prices, and how much of the daily rent he needed to give to the owner everyday. Or bitching about people who zoom across on bikes.

“Subah subah ek maaru toh set hai,” he explains. Neither sheepishly, nor with pride. Matter of fact.

We ask him why he doesn’t drink instead, since everyone seems to do it. “Daaru mein dimaag ko rest nahi milta saab,” he says, holding his right hand to his head. “Jumjumjumjum hota rehta. Chala nahi sakta main.”

For about ten years, alcohol was prohibited in the state. The people of the state were denied their 650 ml of panacea because it was seen as a social evil. Then in 1997, Chandrababu Naidu rolled back the prohibition. Since then, the people of Andhra haven’t looked back.

Andhra Pradesh is the largest consumer of alcohol in the country. In just these ten years, it has been a short but meteoric career by the state in liquor sales. On any given day, you will find one man sprawled across the road in front of the shop. At 10 am.

The journey is long, but fun. The man is smiling, and after a long conversation we reach the place. It is a shanty basti, full of ashanty. There are children running about, dogs walking like they own the road, water flowing off some of the houses.

The man asks us to stop at a distance. “Aap logon se zyada lega. Main laatun.” We followed him.

The way to the house went through allies and shops. We peeked into the dimly lit houses. Some of them had idols that were being prepared for a festival. In others, we found women boiling something in a huge pot, its white fumes rising, without a smell.

The man wore a blue lungi and had a beard. There was a little bit of heckling, but the price was settled. We walked back into the auto and sat.

While we were driving back, new doubts sprang up in our mind. Would he blackmail us for going the extra mile? He knew where we lived, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to lodge a complaint in our name.

We drove back to our homes, from the coloured tiny streets to the broad, grey strokes of the offices and malls. It was a Sunday morning, and the roads were secluded.

The summers had set in, but it was rather pleasant. Like the sun was reluctant to work on a Sunday. There was no one visible as far as the eye travelled, and he took out a cigarette. He stopped at the curve of a road and pulled up to the right of the road.

I was prepared for it. I knew he would stop and ask for some money.

He put his hand into his pocket and took out a small piece of paper rolled into a ball. We stepped out to look at the road. We spoke as he emptied his cigarette, and blew the brown dust away. He crushed with his right thumb on his left palm, and filled it up, and tapped the butt against the nail of his left thumb. He then held it out for us.

We sat and spoke. And smoked.

Most auto guys will give you their phone number and ask you to call them. This brother didn’t give no fuck. He dropped us off at home. We never saw him again in that area.

 

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If one were to make a list of Germans who left an impact on India, Max Müller would probably be the first name that comes to mind. Adolf Hitler could be the second, considering that Mein Kampf is considered a management guide in India. Otto Königsberger will not be a name you will hear, even though he impacted directly many lives in our country.

Otto Königsberger will not go down in history as a legend. Books will not be written about him, nor will he be played by Robert Downey Jr. in a Tom Hooper adaptation.

During the years of the World War, Mr. Königsberger left Germany when the Third Reich rose in power. He travelled to different countries, offering his services as an architect and town planner, till he was signed by the British government to design buildings in India. He designed towns and cities, and a testimony of his many skills was the fact that after partition, he continued to work with the new India’s Ministry of Health. He later went on to teach at the University College, London, and finally at UN.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because somewhere in his illustrious career, he was asked to design a new capital for the state of Orissa. Cuttack, the erstwhile capital, could not be extended any further as it was surrounded by water on all sides, and a nearby temple town was chosen as the capital. Königsberger saab must have gotten a tad lazy on that project.

For many years, the entire of Bhubaneswar existed on two sides of a single road. The road from Utkal University to Rajmahal Square like a gigantic snake, divided the city into two halves. On the right, you could find the official buildings – offices, government quarters, schools, party offices, and a Ram Mandir thrown in. To the left, you had the private spaces – private residential colonies, newspaper offices, and showrooms that sold clothes when much of the town’s fashion came from a handful of shops.

The town has expanded since, like a blotting distributary heading in every direction. This road is still the busiest road of the town, and if you woke up at six (which is highly unlikely if you actually live here), you will notice the municipality workers sweeping the roads.

It was on this road that I found myself one night, returning home. It had rained in the evening, and the lights of the buildings shone off the wet roads. Red, orange, and purple, the reflections added a colour splash to the picture, like God discovered that he had been Van Gogh all along.

This was about 10 PM, the time when you board an auto knowing fully well that he wasn’t going to start till the auto was filled with at least double the number of passengers it could take. You were at the mercy of the auto guy, no matter how urgent your need.

There was one other person in the auto and as we waited for more customers, two blind men walked into the auto. They had their white sticks and their slow, unsure movements drew attention.

I moved a little to the right and after about ten minutes we started towards Vani Vihar. People got on and off at places, and the auto guy pulled up at Kharvelnagar to the left. The two blind men got out, and turned towards us.

“Bhaina, could you walk us to the other side of the road?” they asked. To each of us, and yet to no one in particular. It was already ten and waiting for another auto was a pain in the ass. Plus, the guy could charge whatever he wanted.

The man next to me made a ‘pltch’ sound and turned away. I got down and held one of their hands.

The one at the back held the shoulder of the one in the front, who held my hand, as we walked across the traffic policeman.

“Leave us in front of Big Bazaar,” one of them said. “Are you sure? I could drop you ahead of Big Bazaar,” I offered.

“No, no. We can go from there,” he insisted. This was odd.

Big Bazaar was the city’s first official mall. On the opening day, it looked like an avant garde gas chamber designed by Hitler – people were crammed into every imaginable space. The crowd has reduced since then, but it still remains a fairly busy place. It was difficult for a pedestrian with eyes to cross. How would they manage?

When we reached Big Bazaar, he slipped his hand out of mine curtly, saying thanks.

I stayed there to see what they’d do.

They turned left, 90 degrees and walked a little. There was a chhenna seller, his metal vessels gleaming in the night, a chhennapodo resting heavily on one of the vessels. The man looks at them, takes out a small, circular tiffin box and with two fingers, brings out a green, gooey paste.

He makes two balls of this paste, and places them on the rims of two steel glasses. Like a cherry on the top.

The two men stretch their hands out, feel the glasses, and raise them up. They open their mouths and the balls plop into their mouth, as the drink up the water. They pay him in coins, and turn. They hold each other’s hands, and slowly walk ahead.

I feel a little guilty – like I had peeped in on someone’s private moment. As I walk back, I wonder what sort of a high would the two blind guys get from the bhang. Most of us have ‘visions’, or ‘trips’. What sort of a trip would a person have, if he has never seen anything? It must be a more powerful high. A pure flight of fancy – unbridled by any imagery.

As I walk further, I look to the right, then to the left, and then to the right again for the psycho biker, and cross the road. To my luck, I found an auto waiting on the other side of the road.

As I crossed the road to reach the auto, I peeped into the auto to find it was the same one I had gotten out of.

The driver smiled, waited for me to sit, and started off. The man next to me wasn’t pleased.

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Baigan ki Biodiversity !!

Dear Participants of the Conference of Parties (CoP) in Hyderabad,

You wouldn’t know this, but about a month before you guys landed here, the government was working its ass off trying to impress you. The roads were cleaned up, beggars were driven away so that you don’t think we are a poor nation, and small shops that sell paan and cigarettes (for loose, unlike in your countries) were sent packing.

But don’t fall for all that. That’s not the real Hyderabad.

I am assuming you guys were put up at Novotel in Hitec City. Do something.

Take an auto-rickshaw. Begin by slashing in half whatever price he quotes. Then ask him to take you to the parallel road next to the Hitec City Road – from Kondapur to Mehdipatnam. That’s the real Hyderabad.

You’ll find the city is not just another metropolitan city with white and grey shades. Its got a lot of colour – the yellow of the autos, the green from the mosques, the brown from the roads, and a myriad of other colours that make up Hyderabad.

Since you guys are interested in Biodiversity, you should watch the roads carefully. You’ll find lots of cows on the road, the cliché of Indian roads that films love to show. But in fact, look down for a bit, and you’ll see they are bulls. You see, cows are considered sacred in India, but bulls have no special place. So they are left on the roads to fend for themselves and die.

You won’t find many birds in the city, even sparrows have more or less vanished. There will be, of course, lots of crows. And stray dogs too. It is estimated that there are about 12 lakh stray dogs in the city, and they feed off open garbage bins and the generally weak sewage and waste disposal system. But instead of having more dust bins, the government every now and then kills many of these strays. Come on, surely it’s not our fault that those dirty little things aren’t as evolved as we are?

You’ll also find an amazing number of rocks and hills along the roads. But these are mere remnants.

Hyderabad has rock formations that date back to 2,500 million years ago. However, all the swanky malls and roads that you see today were built after destroying most of these rocks. The same seems to be happening with trees in the city. The more the buildings in the area, the lesser the trees.

And lakes! Hyderabad once had about 3000 lakes. Can you believe that? 3000 lakes in a single city. Today, there are about 150 of them, and they face a serious threat too. Illegal buildings, encroachments, flouting of rules by real estate developers, have all led to this problem. You see, we all want ‘Lake View Apartments’, and that makes areas near lakes prime property.

Of course, the government must have shown you the seemingly beautiful Husain Sagar with Buddha standing serenely in the middle. But don’t be surprised if in a few years you find Buddha covering his nose! The Hussain Sagar is a mucky, dirty lake. Till a few years ago, all the shit, sewage and waste went into the lake. Plus, we have this festival called Ganesh Chaturthi, where we create huge idols of Ganesha and dump them into the lake. Only someone with the calmness of Buddha can take all the dirt and stench.

As you move into the older parts of the city, you will find that the cars and the office buildings and swanky malls belonged to a different Hyderabad. This is the invisible half, the one that doesn’t show in brochures or websites describing the city. Here, the roads are dirtier, and the people are poorer. But of course, you wouldn’t know that. The ‘Hyderabad Darshini’ bus takes a detour so that you don’t have to go through the trauma of seeing the real city.

As evening sets in, you will find people lining in front of liquor stores, and the city starting to smell heavenly. Have some biriyani or shawarma (Remember in the final scene of Avengers, when Iron Man says he wants to eat some shawarma? That’s the one!).

When you return to your room, you will feel dusty and tired. But rest assured, you have seen the real Hyderabad.

Don’t go by the bullshit the government gives you guys. That’s not the real Hyderabad, that’s Hyperabad. Hyderabad is in the Old City, in the smell of food and scent of ittar. In crowds in front of booze shops at ten in the morning, and in Irani cafes sipping chai. That’s the real Hyderabad.

Yours Truly,

A frustrated smoker looking for cigarettes in Hitec City.

Trying to ‘Remember Shakti’

‘Remember Shakti’ was performing in Hyderabad, and I was lucky to get a ticket.

The gig was a reunion of the ‘Shakti’ band, which disbanded in the 70s, and now consists of John McLaughlin (ranked 49 in the Rolling Stones’ Greatest Guitarists of All Time), Zakir Hussain (tabla), V. Selvaganesh (Ghatam, Kanjira, Mridangam), Mandolin Srinivas, and Shankar Mahadevan.

The concert was to be at the Chowmahalla Palace, the majestic palace built by the Nizam that has been converted into a tourist attraction. Beautiful music, in a beautiful location. Just perfect, right?

WRONG!!

You have to consider the many ways in which Indians would fuck up a perfectly good concert. So, for music lovers (or at least the ones who sat where I was sitting), it was a battle you had to win. Against all these elements constantly trying to challenge the band.

The concert surprisingly began bang at 8.30. While the artists were ready on the stage, some IAS officer who was supposed to light the lamp and begin the proceedings, took his own sweet time, lighting all the wicks on the lamp.

The seating system was the usual. The ‘Silver’ tickets at the back, the ‘Gold’ category was in the front, separated by a barricade. In front of the ‘Gold’ category, was the ‘Asshole’ category, which meant politicians, and their stooges who could waltz in and out of the concert whenever they wanted.

After the first number, Zakir Hussain took the mike and announced, “A concert is about creating a rapport with the audience. It’s like driving a car, with the wiper constantly on the windshield, which makes it difficult for you to drive. So the people in the front please stop walking around.” This was met with cheers from the back rows – serious people who had come early and were sitting on their chairs, craning their necks to watch the artists.

To add to the mahaul at the Chowmahalla, the organisers had come up with the idea of having food stalls. Which meant a constant ruckus of people asking for Pepsi, coffee, pop corn, and mirchi bajjis. Not unlike going to watch an Akshay Kumar film.

If you managed to overlook the noise and immerse yourself into the music, there were the children. Now, why do parents bring in children to movies and music concerts? Children, considered to be incarnations of God, hate silence.

The tranquility of the concert was interrupted when an imp next to us decided to test his vocal chords and went, “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH”

Zakir Hussain promptly got down from the stage, ruffled his hair, smiled and said, “Wah Taj! bolo”.

Ok, I made that up. Everybody just turned and cursed the kid in their minds, and smiled benevolently at him, and his dad took him away. Things remained calm for a while, but Hyderabad was planning its next attack.

A loud boom caused everyone to look up, and there it was. Crackers going off in the sky – bright and loud like Rakhi in the Sky. At one point, even Zakir Hussain looked up to see what the commotion was about.

The crackers eventually fizzled out, only to give way to some classic Indian shadi songs, being played at full blast. Getting married in India gives you the right to fuck with everyone’s peace of mind, and these guys were going at it with a vengeance.

At one point, Shankar Mahadevan stopped and said, “Sur thoda alag hai unka.”

To which Zakir adds, “Ek ticket mein do do concerts ho gaye.”

But the marriage songs faded into oblivion as the Jugalbandis reached a crescendo. First between the guitar and mandolin, and then between the two percussionists. And Shankar Mahadevan’s silken voice seemed to caress every note, helping it on its way.

Since I had the ‘Silver’ tickets, and my father is not a politician, I had to contend with staring at the two screens that was were installed on both sides of the stage. But the cameraman…..!

The cameraman clearly harboured ambitions of working with Mani Ratnam. So instead of zooming in the middle of a terrific solo, he would zoom out to a panoramic shot of the palace. The last piece of the concert was the jugalbandi between Hussain and Selvaganesh and this is where the cameraman’s true genius showed.

By the time he would pan left to Hussain, his part would be over. The cameraman would then slowly pan to the right with BBC like precision, only to realise Selvaganesh’s part was over too. At one point, he thought ‘Fuck it’ and zoomed in on Shankar Mahadevan, sitting right in the middle!

****************************************************

At one point, I thought about how it would be if this concert was being held a hundred years ago, with the Nizam sitting in the first row in his own palace. He would probably jail everyone who disturbed his concert.

And here we were, contending with democracy and all the bullshit that free will brings with it. I might sound like a grumpy old man, but in spite of the the popcorn, the kids, the crackers, the marriage songs, and the ambitious cameraman, the music was worth it.

Bye, cycle. My cycle..

I was in the third standard, and selections for the Annual Sports and Cultural Meet were going on. There were rumours that there were going to be brand new cycles for a cycle drill. The bikes were BSA Mongoose, sleek and quick. Practice meant riding the cycle for hours a day. It was great fun. Not for me, of course.

I was in a stupid drill called ‘Horse and Stars’, because I didn’t know how to cycle. This innovative drill involved running around in formations with a stick-horse in between my legs, and huge, golden stars pasted on each of my palms. It was humiliating to say the least.

I finally learnt to ride a bicycle pretty late – around my 5th standard. It was a maroon BSA Ladybird that belonged to my sister. Though the cycle must have weighed a total of 15 kilos, it was everything for me. I first learnt to ride it ‘half-pedal’, and then ‘full-pedal’, and then while sitting on the seat. I still remember the feeling when I was convinced I could ride it. The ecstatic feeling of balancing on your own wheels.

Soon, it became a mad obsession. I would do the rounds of the colony, on my BSA Ladybird, in an imaginary world of my own. Sometimes I was Agniputra Abhay with the magical bike, other times I was a hero being chased by goons, and on some romantic evenings, I’d imagine I was carrying a senior from school on the carriage behind – I would ride slowly then. My first accident with a cycle happened soon after.

It was in the afternoon, and I was on the road near a chaurasta. I was imagining that it was the last ball of a cricket match, and Ajay Jadeja and Robin Singh are in the crease, and they have to steal a quick single. So lost was I in the imaginary match, that I failed to see the vehicles in front of me. Not one, but two of them. So I ended up bending the rims of both the wheels, one by a scooter, and another by a bike.

Now, Ladybirds are no Royal Enfields. They are just Domestic Dandies. Both the rims having bent in the nail-biting finish to the match, I had to part-drag, part-carry the cycle back home. I was welcomed with the choicest abuses, and Ladybird was caged in the house. That was probably the last time I rode that cycle.I had never had a bicycle since.

Now the thing is that the University of Hyderabad’s campus is one fucking huge campus. When I first joined it, I made decisions to jog to the college in the mornings, and jog back after classes. All good, except that the distance is seven bloody kilometers. Aptly titled J&K hostels, they are in the other end of the campus. If you do not have a bike, you have to have a bicycle. Or make sad faces and wait for lifts, hoping someone will drop you somewhere on the way.

Keeping these factors in mind, I decided to buy a bicycle. I went to this shop, suspiciously named ‘Peddlars’ Point’, and asked him for bicycles. He showed me a few. From the Postman wala Atlas to the modern snazzy ones. I finally boiled down on one. It was a cool silver Hercules Ultima DX 6 gear bicycle. I remember riding back to the room, with the same feeling of ecstacy that came with the ladybird. On the way back, I remember re-committing myself towards a fitter life, and that this was a beginning for new things to come.

They say, you can take the horse to the river, but you can’t make it drink water. Similarly, you can buy yourself a bicycle, but you cannot stop being a lazy bastard. So I would wake up, realise there were 15 minutes left for class, and rush to Vamshi’s room below, and go on his scooter.

I did use the cycle once in a while, like the time when KSS came over one evening. There was a film screening at the auditorium and we planned to go there. We had also planned to have some rum, and passed out with flying colours. Also, the film was ‘Poison’, and so there were, the two of us. Drunk and horny, and riding on a bicycle to the auditorium.

You would have seen gruesome bike accidents on AXN or youtube, ours was the lamest accident ever. Just two drunk guys, riding, and toppling over. While we got up, and dusted and laughed about it, my cycle was hardly amused. The handlebar turned upside down, the bell stopped ringing, and random loose screws resulted in me making a chhang-chhang sound wherever I went.

There is something about us human beings, imperfections make our hearts grow fonder. I repaired my cycle, and started spending more time with it. I took it to college, to the Sports Complex, and for other chores. One day, I left it near the small gate, properly locked, about thirty feet from the security post. The next morning, my cycle was missing.

I was sad that I had not used it enough. That I had not been a good owner to the cycle, and that I had expected even an iota of alertness and brains in the security guards. I looked for it for days, in secret couple hangouts, dumpyards, and obscure parking spots, but I never found it.

As a final desperate gesture, I put up the following poster at different spots around the university.

I got some appreciation, some criticism, and an SMS telling me that the University was not my father’s, to use the f word. But I didn’t get my cycle.

So, dear cycle. If you haven’t been dismantled and sold in parts at the Chor Bazaar in Dhoolpet already, I hope you are good.

I hope your new owner is treating you well. And I hope you are spicing up his life too, with the little surprises you used to spring on me.

Like making a quick turn in front of a hot chick, and suddenly realising the brake is not working. Or pedalling vigorously uphill, only to have the chain snap.

Hope you’re giving him the real pleasure of riding a cycle.

BiRYANi ADAMS

So Bryan Adams was coming to Hyderabad. And Sarthak and me had tickets to the concert. And I was pretty kicked.

You see, I have never been to any real concert. I had been to an Indian Ocean concert, but the experience was spoiled because of some tasteful guys in the audience who interrupted the concert screaming, “Rock on!” and “Jai Ho”, which pissed Rahul Ram a great deal and the concert sank.

We reached the place at six o clock, and the concert was to begin at 1900 hours Indian Stretchable Time. We had got the cheapest tickets and it was pretty much the scene in a local train. People were jostling for space, and giving way to the occasional sandwich seller and Aquafina bootlegger. There was a hostess who was attempting to the entertain the crowd with utterly original questions like,

“Are you guys with me?” and “Are you guys ready?”

Just as we were realising that it is going to be an uncomfortable affair standing here waiting for Mr. Adams to come on stage, the hostess announced that Arshad Warsi was here and had ‘something for us’. What Arshad Warsi had was a cruel joke. He was promoting some film called ‘Faaltu’ and some dancers came on to the stage and started performing to some songs.

You dont mess with a crowd that has been waiting for two hours and Mr. Warsi did just that. He asked the audience to say loudly after him,

“FAAAAL – TUUUUUUU”

“FUUUUUCK YOOOOOUUU”, the crowd went, promptly. This went for about a minute, after which Warsi probably realised the plan had backfired and left the stage reminding us all about how much he loved us all. And then, Bryan Adams came on to the stage.

He hardly looks like a rock singer. His hair was neatly parted at the side and gelled, and he wore a black shirt and jeans, looking more like the head of the Indian arm in a BPO company than a singer. Once he came on stage, we realised why the film stars had bought the more expensive tickets. What we saw was a synchronised show of heads bobbing up and down to the music.

There was a lot of speculation on whether he was lip-syncing or not. “Har show mein wohi hota hai”, the wise guy who was standing in the group in front of us pointed, and after spending five minutes standing on my toes and not being able to figure out if he was in fact lip-syncing, I gave up. Even if he was, there was nothing I could do about it.

There were no long chats between songs and drunk jokes like the kind Mohit Chauhan would crack on stage. He finished one song, smiled, spread his arms out, and went on to the other song. He was egged on by some creative slogans shouted once in a while.

“Once more, once more”

“We know only one song. Play ‘Summer of 69;”

“Give us another song, or give us a separate state” etc etc

But he was a sport. The crowd generally knew a maximum of 2 lines in every song. So the sing-along concert would go like this:

PLEASE FORGIVE ME…

EVERY WORD i abrrrabaah TRUE..

PLEASE FORGIVE ME,

abbaabaabba YOU.

But when the crowd heard the first strains of that one song, that one damn song that everyone knew, it was like the crowd had collectively taken a snort of coke. In unison, they blasted off into how they had bought that guitar at the five and dime, and the dumbass chick who kept standing on her mama’s porch.

I surprised myself by knowing more than just one Bryan Adams song, but I guess that comes with having a girlfriend in the early 2000s. So I crooned along and cheered and ‘once mored’ after every song. He was a sport. He spoke to the audience, joked with them, took pictures, and asked one to come on to the stage and sing with him.

And just like that, before we knew it, the concert was over. Bryan Adams thanked us all and told us that we were the loudest crowd he has seen in India (debatable, considering Adams has never been to an Oriya wedding)

You always know the reaction of the crowd to a show by the way they come walking out of the place. When people came out of the halls watching Rang De Basanti, everyone wanted to change the country. When people came out of Dhoom, even TVS Max 100 were revving like Hayabusas. And when people came out of this concert, everyone had an English song on their lips.

Every one was nodding, or waving, or humming, and looking for the exit.

Kimbo Slice

If you ever visit the University of Hyderabad, go down to Gops and meet Kimbo.

Kimbo is the right creature in the wrong species. Brown, slim, with long legs and brown eyes that are as deep as the sea, Kimbo would have been a total stud if he was a sapien (using the word Homo for Kimbo seems criminal). He is Casanova the Lover meets Alexander the Great meets Chenghis Khan the Horny.

Kimbo was brought to the University as a puppy by a few seniors. Since then, he has been pampered so much that within 6 months, he became the undisputed king of Gops, the largest canteen area in the University. I have been close to a lot of dogs in my life, but I am yet to meet someone with as much character as Kimbo.

I guess what makes him different is that he is not very nice. Dogs are essentially nice creatures, and that’s why they get bullied, chained and petted by humans (cats are a different story altogether). We are always used to dogs sticking around with their owners through thick or thin, faithful as ever. Doesn’t work that way with Kimbo.

To befriend him, you treat him as a friend, as an equal. He does not eat vegetarian food. Only chicken, mutton, or fish. And no aaltu-faaltu biscuits either. Tiger biscuits only, thank you very much. He doesn’t respond to names like ‘Cheeku’, ‘Chiklu’ or other crap. The name is Kimbo and you only call him that. And he doesn’t like people smoking around him, so if you want to smoke, please walk away. Follow these simple rules and you have Kimbo as your friend.

Kimbo doesn’t suck up to you for food by wagging his tail. He will approach you, size you up, wait for a few seconds, and then move. And once Kimbo has approved of your company, you cannot cheat on him with some other dog. He does not let any other dog come close to you. Fiercely possessive about his friends, many dogs have realised it the hard way. Especially 50.

50 is Kimbo’s archrival, and the favourite of some people in the university, but they are a minority. Named after the rapper 50 Cent, 50 is black, cool and a total badass. He is the only one who stands up to Kimbo in a fight. But he is unwell and aging and I think all the other dogs realize that too, and so have anointed Kimbo as their leader. When there is a group of dogs and Kimbo approaches, they all duly stand up and wag their tails. And he has the prettiest girl in the group, a beautiful white bitch who is sometimes allowed to walk with him, and never allowed to mingle with any of the others. I think Kimbo has male ego issues.

You see, Kimbo has been castrated. But that doesn’t in any way mean he doesn’t have balls. There are legendary stories about Kimbo’s fighting prowess. Says Ditti, a 2nd year Literature student and a fan of 50. “The other day we were going from Gops to ShopCom, and Kimbo was following us. He seemed to be in a pissed off mood from the beginning, but we had no idea what was in store. When he reached ShopCom, he saw four local dogs and decided to vent his anger on them. He took on three of them, beat their asses hollow, and shooed away the fourth. Kimbo is a fighter, I have to admit”.

Another remarkable quality about Kimbo is that he attends classes. He sits in the front of the classroom in the Literature department, and does not disturb the class. The professors are used to him now, and I suspect his name might be on the attendance roll in a few years.

And he is also with us when we hang out within the university. There have been nights when I had to walk alone from Gops to my hostel (which is 4 kms away). I just called out to him, and he walked with me to my hostel, saw me off to my room, and came back. There are lots of rocks in the university where students hang out, and he comes along with us, sits quietly next to us, and barks if he senses anyone approaching.

Kimbo’s only enemy, however, is RGPB Old Man. He is a sweeper at Gops. The initials RGPB is because of the Rapist Glasses and Pedophile Beard he wears. While he never does his primary work of keeping Gops clean, he takes great pleasure in whacking the hell out of dogs. So even if Kimbo is the Goddog among his peers, he is but a meek, whining dog when RGPB Old Man approaches with his broom and basket. However, Kimbo’s slowly increasing fan base has begun putting up a fight and asking him to shove his broom somewhere within himself.

Now that the holidays are going on, I can’t stop thinking of dear old Kimbo. Who would be feeding him his daily quota of Tiger biscuits and chicken? And who would he come running to when he hears a whistle? I can’t wait to get back to the University, to the sight of Kimbo running to me, with that ‘Where the fuck were you?’ look on his face.

Really, you should meet him sometime. The dog is a dude.

Kadai Paalak Matar Paneer

Cooking has always been among the sexiest things to do according to me. I have told a lot of girls that I love cooking. Its a white lie. Truth is, while I love it, my knowledge of cooking is marginally more than my knowledge of the Uruguayan economy.

Its not as if I haven’t tried. I did volunteer to help at home in the kitchen. I tried making rotis but they ended up looking like diligently made briefs. My attempts at Gajar halwa resulted in flying colours, most of which were hitherto unknown to mankind. So, I gradually gave up, and reconciled to honing my skills at Maggi and ready to eat soups.

Yesterday, Sarthak got one of his impulses to cook. He is a supermarket owner’s wet dream, and there is no stopping him when he goes shopping. We made a few phone calls and got all the ingredients required. We decided that since we were making rice anyway, we should make it from the best quality. We were shocked to find that a packet of Basmati rice costs 153 rupees. I opine the government should start selling Basmati rice at a subsidised price too.

Around 8 o clock, we began. First, cut the palak. I did my best, but the instructions were to cut them to really small shreds. After wrestling with the palak for half an hour, we decided to shred it with our bare hands. Meanwhile, the rice should be cooked.

Sarthak set up the rice. Problem was, we have an induction stove, and were not sure if pressure cookers work on induction stoves. So we borrowed Raj’s cooker, put in the rice and water, set it on the stove and prayed to God. We were told one whistle will do. We waited for 20 minutes, and were expecting a whistle like Rajesh Khanna’s from ‘Yeh Shaam Mastani’. It was nearly half an hour now, and there was no sign of a whimper, leave alone a whistle. We opened the cooker anyway and tasted the rice, to see that it was alright. Our friend Raj later informed us that the whistle might have been spoilt.

Now, for the curry. We had shredded the palak and were on the call with Aunty.

Aunty: Now add some oil, wait till it is heated and then add the palak.
Me: Wait till the oil is heated, or boiled?
Aunty: Heated.
Me: But it has started boiling.
Aunty: Then add the palak, and then add the salt. Be careful how much salt you add.

Sarthak took this advice with two large pinches of salt.

Sarthak: Will this much salt do?
Aunty(who was clearly getting put off with our inquisitiveness): Can I see from here how much you have added?
Sarthak: Oh, ok ok .
Aunty: Now put the lid on and leave it for five minutes.

After five minutes, we saw that the palak, which looked quite a lot in the beginning, had shrunk to the size of a dark green version of flubber. This was clearly not going to be enough for three of us. What to do?

Sarthak: Let’s add green peas to it.
Me: Aren’t we making palak paneer?
(Awkward silence for a few seconds, and we begin soaking the peas in water)

Following which, Raj walks in and nonchalantly informs us that he is quite a good cook. He has sarcastic timing, this guy! He took over and we were mere side-cooks. “Cut the onions now.”

Me: “Horizontally or in rings?”
Raj: “Leave it, I’ll do it. You add the paneers in the oil.”
Me: “Till they become brown, or reddish” (Angry stare, followed by Raj doing it himself)

Somewhere in between, we realised the quantity seemed on the lesser side. What to do? No problem! Lets make it a gravy-rich curry. I promptly added two glasses of water to it.

To pass time, me and Sarthak helped ourselves to three glasses of lemonade and one each of Jaljeera.

After an hour of going from the drawing room to the kitchen, taking the lid off and stirring th curry, getting fingers burnt, and trying to act busy, it was ready.

It was a two hour ordeal. We finally sat down to eat.

We were hungry as horses, the curry was giving off an enchanting smell, and England were kicking Australia’s ass in the final. Perfect!

When we launched into the curry, we had mixed feelings. It seemed a trifle salty, the colour was somewhere in between dark green and dark brown, and Raj and Sarthak seemed to have got more curry than me (even after switching the bowls after careful consideration)

But it was the best damn Kadai Paalak Matar Paneer I have ever had.

Sharing is Caring!

I had been to the University of Hyderabad in the afternoon today. It was a pleasant day, and the view of the cloudy sky while lying down on the grass was so appealing that I fell asleep after a while. One of the lecturers had to wake me up, asking me who I was, what I was doing here, and what course I had applied for. (M.Tech – Mathematics Specialisation, I answered)

While I was leaving the campus, it started drizzling. Now, there is something so beautiful about the first rain, that one never tires from talking about it, no matter how cliched the topic is. And for someone who loves getting wet in the rain, I love the way people run helter skelter when it starts raining. I always look around for other people, but I always find it is children who know the real fun of getting drenched in the rain.

After getting wet thoroughly, I was on my way back in a “7 seater”. It was a Tata Ace that carried seven people and got dirty looks from auto drivers all through the journey. Seated in front of me were a family. There was a mother and her two children, one by the window and another on the woman’s lap.

I am not great with children. I can talk to them and play with them, but I am not good at the “Ullu-lullu, coochie-mocchie baby” kind of talking, so I generally do not get along well with babies. The kid in front of me must have been six years and old and his brother about three.

The elder one would keep looking out of the window and nudging his mother, and she would keep asking him to keep shut, glaring at him all the while. All of a sudden, he covered his mouth with his hand and stood up. “Vanti Vanti!!”, the people shouted and the ‘helper’ rushed to open the screen that was pulled up to keep out the rain. Too late!

The kid had already cleared half of his digestive system inside the vehicle, and half of it was on my leg. The window was opened to allow him to add finishing touches, and his mother was both reprimanding him and holding the younger baby in her hands.

The little kid was woken out of sleep and had started wailing. I offered to hold her baby for her, and the mother pushed almost half of the older guy out of the window, so he could vomit outside. Poor guy had had too much watermelon!

The little kid in my arms meanwhile, had calmed down. He was dark, and had big, round eyes on which his mother had applied copious amount of kaajal. He kept looking up at me and saying ‘Gaga’ or ‘Baba’ or ‘Tata’ or something, expecting me to talk to him. However, I just smiled and gave him my finger.

While his mother kept saying Sorry for her elder son’s mess, this little devil in my arms would hold my finger, put it in his mouth, and bite it. And everytime I pulled out my finger with an ‘Ah’, he would give a gargling laughter. I did it a few more times and each time his laughter grew louder.

There is something about a child’s laughter, that brings warmth to your heart. I continued playing with him for a while. Slowly, I could feel the warmth flow into my shirt and my trouser. The child had happily peed all over me!!!

His mother took him back, smacked his bottom, got down in the next stoppage. The driver apologised for all the trouble and took 5 rupees instead of 6. I was surprised. I was covered in puke and pee, and somehow I wasn’t feeling like stabbing someone around me.

As I walked to my home, the last drops of the drizzle soaked me completely. I was surprised at myself, for not getting pissed off.

The first rains not only bring drops of water, they bring with them happiness. A wish to run and play, and get dirty. A memory of childhood, and that smell of wet earth.

Officials at the meteorological department have predicted good monsoons this year. When the first rains strike your city, don’t run away. Walk into the rain and get soaked.

You’ll feel good.

Sharing is Caring!

There was a power-cut last night and I was left with no option to sit at home, sweating on a bean bag. Since everything these days runs on electricity, I decided to listen to the radio. Since most of the FM stations were playing, I was listening to AIR Rainbow. This is an often ignored radio station, lost amidst the Mirchis and the Reds, that runs on government funds and listeners’ patience.

Listening to the songs sent me back into the past. Most of the songs were Nadeem Shravan hits of the 90s, which we used to call Barber Songs, as you could hear them being played in barber shops all across the country. Now, Nadeem Shravan might not be AR Rahman or RD Burman, but they surely are amongst the largest selling music composers in the Hindi Film Industry. Much of it is due to the fact that they had simple, hummable tunes and easy understable lyrics by Sameer. Of course, Kumar Sanu lent his nose to all their songs. I remember scenes in my village every time I hear the Nadeem Shravan songs.

Add to that, there was this RJ hosting the show. He wasn’t exactly Ameen Sayani. I suspect he was an insurance agent in the day, going by the number of times he reminded his listeners that “Zindago bahut chhoti hai” and “Kise pata kab chali jaye?” I also thought he was upto some other fishy business in the daytime because he kept reminding his listeners that “Mujhe aapki massage ka intezaar rahega”. Thankfully, he got to speak for a minute at every interval. He made up for that by the songs he played. None of the listeners were responding to his nocturnal calls for ‘massages’ and so I was treated to some hits by Nadeem Shravan.

Now, the angst of Hyderabad youth about Sania Mirza marrying someone from across the border is well-known. It seemed like this young man was hell bent on taking potshots at Shoaib Malik.

The first song was ‘Saason ki zaroorat’ from Aashiqui. After talking of the importance of 0xygen and Carbon Di-oxide for survival, it says spoke about how just ONE lover is required for love.

Here, there was another appeal for the listeners to send in their massages. The next song was an appeal to return home, “Chitthi aayi hai”. With mindblowing lyrics like

Tere Bin Jab Aayi Diwali, (When the festival of Diwali came without you)

Deep Nahin Dil Jale Hain Khaali (Not the lamps, but the hearts have burned only)

Tere Bin Jab Aayi Holi, (When the festival of Holi came without you)

Pichkaari Se Chhooti Goli (Bullets shot through the watergun)

The next song was the extremely sarcastic ‘Pehli pehli baar mohabbat ki hai’ from Sirf Tum. This song has a banter between the boy and the girl. Sample this:

Guy: Tum kitni bholi ho (Oh you are so innocent)
Girl: (sarcastically) Tum kitne achhe ho
Guy: Tum kitni seedhi ho (Oh, you are so simple)
Girl: Tum kitne sache ho (Oh, how honest you are!)

By the end of this song, I drifted off to sleep, wondering what the ruckus was about.

In the morning today, I saw that Shoaib and Sania had married in a preponed ceremony last night.

Ah! The angst of a resented lover!