The Steakhouse

There and back again: climbing Stok Kangri

2011-11-18T09:53:00.002+05:30

Before the climb

Four pairs of green eyes, gleaming in the light of my headlamp, stood between the Ladakhi toilet and me. Dzos - part Yak, part domestic cattle; harmless enough to circumvent in daylight, but it was 10.00 pm, and the irrationality darkness brings with it made them unapproachable. There was another toilet further away from base camp, and as I stumbled through the rocks towards it, I saw two more Dzos in my path. I looked around for company – reassurance - but if anyone else was awake in their tents, they hadn’t switched on a light. For several minutes I stood there, thinking about what had happened since I woke up not more than 15 minutes ago.

The alarm had shattered the silence – and night at 5000 metres above sea level in the absence of insects and animals is deathly quiet. It was the first time I had set it on the expedition. Tonight I couldn’t afford to rush my preparation. Tonight I couldn't be late. Karma had made that clear. I left the tent to finish the toilet visit before a queue built up, wearing only a thermal top and bottom under my fleece top and shorts. It had been enough for the previous night’s nature call. The more layers you wear, the more complicated it gets. Tonight was different. There was wind and rain. No, not rain. Snow. My first snowfall, on the night I was going to make my first Himalayan summit attempt. Or any summit attempt.

As I stood there, groggy and cold, ridiculously high above sea level, wondering how to pass these monstrous Dzos, Karma’s dinnertime speech a few hours ago replayed in my head. Since he had spoken quickly and in Hindi, I hadn’t understood it all. He got the point across, though. Stok Kangri was to be taken extremely seriously. If there were doubts about enduring the climb to 6120 meters and the descent, about enduring 15 hours in hostile, icy terrain, it would be best to drop out of the summit attempt before it began. There was no room for a ‘let’s see how it goes’ climber. You were either in it for the top, or not going to start.

So with Karma’s instructions in my sleepy head, the snow falling, and the Dzos in my way, I decided to return to my tent, crawl into my sleeping bag, and let the others leave. Except, I had to go to the toilet first.

I took a detour to avoid the animals and, after I had done my thing, everything changed. When I had begun the expedition eight days ago, with no climbing or serious trekking experience, I had no doubt that I would make the summit. That confidence wasn't drawn from having accomplished a similar feat of physical and mental endurance. I was naïve, and could have suffered from fatigue, dehydration, altitude sickness and physical injuries. I hadn’t, though.

Rohit, at one of our lower-altitude camps, had said the mountains were perfect for introspection and that we should reflect on our reasons for climbing Stok Kangri. A beautiful sentiment it was, but I remembered thinking, “I’m doing it because I thought it’d be fun and different from my seaside adventures,” and feeling shallow.

Having come this far, there was no physical reason not to attempt the summit. Whether I was mentally strong enough, after considering quitting because of factors as trivial as Dzos, snowfall and sleep, I did not know. I had to find out.

I returned to the tent and began to get dressed in the light of my headlamp. Thermal bottoms, trekking pants and waterproof pants - worn one on top of the other - for my legs. A thermal top, two dry-fit t-shirts, fleece top and a thin raincoat for my torso and arms. I looked at the down jacket I bought for this night. Amit, an experienced mountaineer whose respect for nature exceeds my own, had advised me against wearing it. “Use several thin layers,” he said. “The down jacket will make you sweat on the climb and dehydrate you.” I thought about carrying it in my backpack, in case I was cold, but decided against lugging the extra weight. A fleece muffler for my neck, a fleece hat for my head and ears, and Aravind’s sunglasses. Aravind, my tent-mate, wasn’t attempting the summit despite being one of the strongest and most methodical trekkers in the group. I didn’t know why. I didn’t ask either. I didn’t want more doubts than I already had. My lunch, three one-litre bottles containing electral, gatorade and water, dry fruits, three snickers bars, lip balm, toilet paper and a pair of crampons went into my backpack. I borrowed Aravind’s harness as well, since his was more modern than mine. I was set. Almost.

Ever since I saw the Koflach, snowshoes that weigh more than a kilo each, back in Leh, I knew I’d hate walking in them. They were large, clumsy and made each step harder to take. On summit day we’d have to take steps for 15 hours. But they keep your feet dry and warm. Namgyal, from whom we hired our equipment, had happened to spot my trekking shoes – Forclaz 900 – and said I could attempt the summit in them instead of the Koflach. The snow and water, he said, would not seep in. That was several days ago, though. I began to have doubts after watching the rest practice walking on ice in Koflach, while I used my trekking boots. Some said I was lucky, because I’d be able to climb with less effort. Others said I should not jeopardize my summit attempt by wearing untested shoes in hostile terrain. I was confused and, at some level, amused that the choice of footwear had acquired such importance. I made peace with my decision – to go for it in Forclaz – only after Amit and Aakash said they too were climbing in their own boots, having found the Koflach too heavy. Aakash told me later, as we were descending from the summit, that he was only 22. I did not believe him until I saw him book his flight ticket a few days later in Leh.

After wearing two pairs of socks for insulation, and a garbage bag over each foot for waterproofing, I laced up my boots, wore my clunky Goretex mittens, picked up my ice axe and left the tent. Our cook and helpers had tea ready. Soon we were all in a circle. There were prayers said, there were shouts of encouragement, and eventually there was silence as we, a line of wavering headlamps on a moonless night, made our way out of base camp for the summit of Stok Kangri at midnight.

The climb

Five had chosen to stay behind. Aravind; Murali senior, who I hope I can be as active and enthusiastic as when I’m 59; Umesh, who had always led the way despite having vertigo and diabetes; Murali junior, who didn't know how he would hold up and so put the group’s interests before his; and Shilpa, for whom reaching base camp was an incredible triumph of will power, considering she said this was her first attempt at anything remotely strenuous.

So thirteen climbers and six guides trekked up a steep, winding, narrow path through the scree and mud. My head was bent, my lamp lighting where my next step would be. “Focus on your breathing,” Amit had said, “never lose your breath as the air gets thinner. It’s hard to come back from there.” Remembering a line from one of the numerous blogs I’d read in Bangalore - “The tortoise always beats the hare up Stok Kangri.” – I went easy, walking within myself as the snow fell.

At our first resting and gathering point, as we waited for the last members of the group, I realised how different tonight would be. All through the expedition, our guides had been happy to wait for as long as we wanted to rest. Not tonight. We needed to summit and return before the sun began to melt the snow. They urged us to continue and soon we struck out on the second leg of the climb – to the glacier.

What glacier? In the darkness I couldn't tell when we reached it, when we walked over it, and when we were done with it. When the terrain underfoot changed from rock to permanent snow and ice I asked Gyal-Po, a guide, whether this was the glacier. He said it was an hour or more away. I did not ask again, trudging along in single-file, munching on dry fruits and stopping for frequent sips of water. Stop, breathe and drink, Karma, had said. Or else you’ll be winded on the move, gulp your water and choke.

Word arrived from the back that Rohit and Yogita had returned to base camp with one guide. They had been the quick-witted ones, and had lightened several dinner atmospheres. I tried to figure out who was ahead and behind me. Vikas, Rajesh, Hemant, Ravi, Amit and Aakash were in front. Meena, Sunand, Devyani and Santosh at the back. I couldn’t be sure though. At some point I caught up with those ahead of me, only because they were waiting, and the ones behind joined us. Karma assessed how everyone was doing and told Santosh he had to go back. Santosh was the most good-natured of our lot and he agreed with no fuss. He even offered us his stash of energy food. We were now 10 climbers and four guides.

I considered quitting. I was in discomfort not because of altitude sickness, though the elevation did exacerbate what I was feeling, but because of starting trouble. The first few kilometres of a run are the hardest; it gets much better after that. So I carried on.

I lost track of time. The wind was fierce, the snowfall incessant. In the light of my headlamp I could see only a blanket of white. Our group had split up. The relatively quicker climbers – Vikas, Amit, Hemant, I and Aakash – with Hong-Da as our guide, had gone on in front. On and on we went for hours. Until we couldn’t go on like that anymore. The gradient had got steeper and the snow deeper. We needed to rope up to each other and wear crampons on our shoes.

Putting one foot in front of the other to walk hadn’t been too hard, but when I bent down to wear my crampons, my head began to spin and I did not know how to put those three straps through three loops. All that practice of wearing them at base camp had been in vain. As I sat on my ass, helpless, the fatigue hit. I began to feel colder and angrier. I’d been waiting for the sun to rise ever since we set out, craving some warmth. It had risen, of course, but it only served to light up the barren landscape in an eerie, dim light. And now we could see the snowstorm, and not just feel it hitting the sides of our faces. Visibility couldn’t have been more than 15 metres. Amit helped me with my crampons. How he had the energy and composure to help others, after wearing his, I don't know. Soon we had spikes under our shoes and the five of us were roped together in single file.

I learned later that when the other group reached this point, Devyani and Ravi turned around with a guide to head back to base camp. It was a tremendously long walk to make alone. Devyani is a marathon runner and experienced trekker; Ravi had been the Road Runner of our group and also taught yoga to those who wanted to learn. That I carried on was probably down to sheer luck, I began to think, and six litres of water a day.

I wondered how badly the altitude and the cold had affected them. I hoped they were okay. However, I also realised, chillingly, that I didn’t care too much. Rather, I wasn’t able to care too much. I was pretty shattered myself and did not have the faculty for compassion. It was a horrifically selfish feeling. Amrita, a close friend, had planned to do this climb with me, but had to pull out of the expedition. I wondered how I’d have reacted if she was in trouble on the mountain. I hoped I would have felt differently, and been more humane. I couldn’t be sure, though. Is there room for humanity at 6000 metres above sea level? Certainly, but this novice climber was feeling nothing. Perhaps, it will come with experience. I hope it does, otherwise I won’t be climbing too many more mountains.

My feet were freezing. My boots were keeping out the snow so my feet were dry, but my Forclaz weren’t as warm as the Koflach. I couldn’t feel my toes. I couldn’t wiggle them at all. I worried about frostbite. One of the guides asked me if I wanted to return to base camp. I don’t think I gave him an answer.

The climb was a blur after that. We clambered for ages over a ridge, with drops of thousands of meters on either side, which we couldn’t see because of the snowstorm. I looked back at Aakash and saw him sleeping on his feet, hunched over his ice axe. Desperate for rest, I yelled at the three in front of me to slow down. Amit kept urging me forward, knowing that the longer you are motionless in the snow, the colder you get, and so your body expends energy in trying to keep you warm. Keep moving. Vikas was a rockstar, shouting words of encouragement from way out in front, when he could have conserved the energy. Hemant, earlier in the climb, had annoyed me more than once by asking me to open his backpack and get stuff out for him. I had to remove my clumsy Goretex gloves and expose my hands to the cold. My anger seems insanely petty in hindsight. I had sensed gamesmanship (on both sides) in my interactions with Hemant since the expedition began. It hasn’t been so since the summit. He’s encouraged me to climb Nandi hills on my cycle since, and during that ride, made me think about running. He ran his first ultra-marathon in November. I did 25 kilometres.

We met some climbers descending from the summit. How much farther to the top? We asked them. Some said half an hour, others much more. Our questions angered our guide Hong-da and he told us not to ask anyone. Only on my descent did I realize why. When another climber asked us how much farther to the top, I realised I had no idea how long I’d been descending. Absolutely no clue.

The summit wasn’t visible to us as we approached it because of the snowstorm. And suddenly, just like that, we were on it. There was nowhere left to climb. It was 8.00 am. We were 6120 metres above sea level. Standing next to prayer flags. The temperature was minus ridiculous. We should have been able to see the Zanskar and Karakoram ranges of the Himalayas. We should have been able to see K2, the world’s second highest peak, and supposedly the hardest to climb. Instead, we couldn’t see more than 10 metres. And all I wanted to do was get the fuck down.

The enthusiasm remains

2010-02-25T12:52:00.002+05:30

4.00 pm. I’d just handed over commentary to a colleague. Sachin Tendulkar and Dinesh Karthik were batting India to a commanding position but this was just another one-day contest with little context, so I didn’t plan to stick around after my shift and watch. I needed to buy groceries for the pasta dinner a couple of friends were coming home for. Besides, the television coverage was tiresome. Advertisements at all the wrong times – we didn’t see replays of the Sehwag wicket, or the blow Langeveldt took to the face, until much after it happened. Tendulkar played some stunning inside-out drives through the off side. One against Parnell stood out – he came forward, made room by moving towards leg to counter the angle from round the wicket and a strong on-side field, and placed it between fielders at cover and point. But we were watching commercials before the ball had reached the boundary.

4.30 pm. Lalit Modi venting on Twitter regarding IPL security concerns made me stay back a while and organise a news report. During that time Tendulkar reached his 46th century – cutting Duminy to point – but I’d barely noticed. Friends ask me all the time whether I ever tire of watching cricket because of my job. I tell them I haven’t and that’s the truth. But it’s also true that it takes a lot more to excite me now than it did before. A mere hundred – a first-innings one that too – on a flat pitch in an ODI that will fade from memory like a dream just doesn’t do it anymore. Tendulkar played terrific shots during his hundred but he always does and, in the absence of the extraordinary, we’ve seen it before – 45 times. A colleague said I should write a piece if Tendulkar gets 200. I said he should do it, and break the record for most-read article on the site. Writing about Tendulkar is intimidating. Where do you begin? What hasn’t been said already?

We always talk of the ODI double-century when a batsman gets to a hundred by around the 25th over. But he usually gets undone by cramp – Anwar 194 v India – gives it away – Gilchrist out for 172 in the 45th over against Zimbabwe – or runs out of time – Tendulkar 186* against New Zealand.

So I left to do my shopping and logged into the commentary from my mobile to keep tabs on the game. India were 176 for 1 when I left office but the scorecard on my phone was stuck at 163 for 1, with Tendulkar on 96. Called the office, was told he was on 111, and that was the last I thought about it for a while.

I needed parsley, olive oil, black olives, peppers, mushrooms and bread. I got everything but the mushrooms at Nilgiris on Brigade road. But the mushrooms were important so I walked towards the Gourmet Store on MG road. They had oyster mushrooms. I wanted button. The sales girl said try Spencer’s. I did. They too had oyster, no button. Apparently button mushrooms are in short supply and great demand. I then asked Au Bon Pain – an excellent café right next to Spencer’s - whether they’d sell me some from their kitchen. I don’t think they understood me.

Thus began a period of aimless walking, one that led me towards the new Natural ice creams parlour on St. Mark’s road. I decided to wait there until my friend arrived at 5.30 pm. I tasted watermelon (excellent), papaya-pineapple (surprisingly good) and strawberry (very creamy, mild fruit flavour) before deciding on the chickoo (if you like the fruit, you’ll love the ice cream). I decided to take a tub of strawberry home for dessert and made polite conversation with the lady behind the counter.

There was time to kill before my friend arrived and I checked whether the commentary on the phone was working again. It was. India were 283 for 2, Tendulkar was around 157, and ten overs remained.

What was I doing? Shopping for mushrooms? Sampling ice creams? The enormity of what I would miss hit home. You’ll understand if you’ve grown up crossing fingers while Tendulkar took strike, felt despair every time he fell with India chasing 250, prayed each time the Cricinfo scorecard took longer than usual to refresh that it was the other batsman, and not Tendulkar, who was out.

I got into an auto and urged him to drive to the Manipal hospital. Fast. Incredibly, he didn’t know the way but wanted to know if I had seen the fire on Airport road the previous day. I was barely listening, staring at my phone – “40.6 Langeveldt to Tendulkar, six, 138.5 kph, cross-batted heave, quite uncharacteristic of Tendulkar but he's in his zone today, slightly short on the off and he shovels it into the crowd behind deep midwicket, brings up the 300” – barely remembering to yell directions to the driver.

Bad traffic doesn’t bother me usually. What can you do but grin and bear it? Today I was cursing. “41.5 van der Merwe to Tendulkar, FOUR, 102.8 kph, absolutely hammered, bowled it on a length on middle, makes room and kills it over the bowler's head for a one bounce four. 41.6 van der Merwe to Tendulkar, SIX, 109.0 kph, Tendulkar's plundering the visitors here, goes past Kapil Dev's 175 with a thunderous six over long-off, not quite there to hit but he knew where it was heading.” He was 179.

A week ago I had decided to delay leaving home for work until Tendulkar reached his Test century in Kolkata. He was on 92 around 3.35 pm, on 97 at 3.55 pm and I could delay leaving no further. I prayed for him to wait a bit today. “42.6 Kallis to Tendulkar, FOUR, 128.0 kph, Tendulkar equals his highest ODI score, a terrible full toss on middle, worked away wide of short fine all the way to the ropes.” A single off the next ball he faced took him past his personal best.

I was still two kilometers from home and a small and selfish part of me wanted him to get out. I didn’t want to miss watching Tendulkar go past 194 or 200. I considered stopping and watching it in front of a shop, but clarity thought wasn’t what I was having. My panic was irrational, but it mattered. And then there was more traffic on Airport road, leading up to the signal.

Got out of the auto about 500 meters from my house, shoved Rs 60 into the driver’s hand – keep the change – and sprinted home, lap top bag slung across my shoulder, right hand clutching half a kilo of ice cream, and me cursing the extra weight around my belly. I missed Tendulkar going past Anwar’s 194. I read that he flicked Parnell for two to break the record - Boucher shook his hand, he didn’t celebrate too much - when I stopped to catch my breath 100 meters from home.

Tendulkar was on 196 when I burst through the door and switched on the TV. He took his time after that, picking off singles. Dhoni had most of the strike, clobbering meaningless sixes and fours when all everyone wanted him to do was take one, or not if it was the last ball of the over. Tendulkar, on 199, finally got strike with four balls left in the innings. He did it with a steer.

Chance

2009-10-08T01:12:00.001+05:30

He squinted at his watch. It was a quarter to midnight: certainly not the appropriate hour to stop a familiar-looking stranger on an otherwise desolate street and check if it was really him. He always thought of the consequences first and, being the cautious sort, they were always exaggerated. He imagined being treated suspiciously, or even rudely, by the man. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, especially since he had just moved into the neighbourhood, and was staying only temporarily. And so he walked on, fiddling with his Ipod until the first familiar track played, and hummed the opening lines of, “Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody …” It felt appropriate, like most songs do. Not in its detail - he didn’t know anyone with a sister who looked like a feline Frankenstein – but in its spirit. It wasn’t true that he didn’t have anybody either. They were all just extremely far away, and were probably sleeping or working, and sometimes proximity was everything.

The walk home from the station took between 15 and 20 minutes on average, depending on the time of day. On a sunny evening he would stroll, not bothering with the Ipod, say hello to passer-bys, make way for joggers, cyclists, and dog-walkers, and watch jets leave streaks of white on the cornflower-blue sky. Nights, weeknights in particular, were different. Often he wouldn’t see a soul on the street from the time he left the station, having only the wind, the sound of his heavy footfall, and sometimes the rain for company until he reached his door. He walked faster at night, and listened to music, to blot out the loneliness of his short journey. He used mundane landmarks – a curve in the road, a community rubbish bin, an intersection – to divide the walk into stages. There was no other reason to do so than to pass the time.

Stage three was the longest, and darkest, and tonight was colder than previous nights. He was walking as briskly as possible, without making the step up to jogging, but decided to slow down to fish out his Ipod. He struggled to untangle the headphones in the streetlight and that was when he heard the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. He wasn’t walking on any and so he paused to ascertain where it was coming from. Before he could turn around to check behind, he saw movement and made out silhouettes of two people walking towards him. Their voices told him one was male, the other female, but they suddenly crossed the road and continued to walk on the opposite side, causing him to wonder whether they had done so because they had spotted a stranger wearing a hooded sweatshirt walking towards them. He always thought other people took more notice of him than they actually did. As he passed them, even though they were on the opposite side and it was dark, he caught a glimpse of the man’s face, his tall frame, and was immediately sure he had seen him before. The woman, he had not. They passed by without casting a sideways glance. And so he reached home, waited for the line “I don’t know when, confused about how as well …” before switching off his Ipod, and unlocked the front door. He knew the code to disable the burglar alarm by heart, and had keyed it in correctly when less sober, yet it always made him nervous.

He had forgotten about last night’s stranger the next morning. Such a thing – a stubborn answer that remained buried in the nether regions of his mind – would have tormented him a few years ago, but not now. And besides, he didn’t have anyone around to prove himself right to. Weeks went by and he got used to his nocturnal walks, learning to enjoy the quiet that darkness brought, and used his Ipod less frequently. He had found a routine – his groove – and settled comfortably in it. And then, several days later, he saw the stranger again

He saw the woman first, getting on to the same train he took every morning, and she had striking eyes. He had definitely not seen her before. After a second glimpse of the man – in the light of day – he knew when and where. It was incredible that he should meet someone he once shared a table with for a few hours, years ago, in another country on a different continent. He went up to say hello and, after a few seconds, was recognized in return. They had been visiting family but were setting out on their honeymoon the next day. It was a shame today didn’t happen ten days ago, the stranger said. It could well have, though he didn’t say that in return.

**

He was in the lobby of a hotel in another city, waiting for the shower to stop, so that he could dash off. His work was done and his impatience grew as the intensity of the rain increased. He had decided he could wait no longer, and had pulled the jacket out of his bag to help brave the cold weather, when he heard someone hesitantly call out his name, and his last name. But he knew no one here and no one knew him. He swiveled, searching among the gathered crowd, and saw her. It had been at least five years since he had seen her last, in another country, and they hadn’t known each other well even then. He was glad to see a familiar face, though, and stopped to catch up. She looked lovely. But his work was done and he had to leave. They exchanged phone numbers and made plans to meet for dinner, or a drink. But never did.

**

He usually arrived as the trains were about to leave and so he was forced to enter the first door he reached. He was early today, and so he walked along the length of one, deciding against one compartment because he saw a leaking soda can on the floor, against another because it had too many children, and finally choosing one because someone had left a newspaper he liked on one of the seats. There are W train routes in the city, X trains every hour, Y compartments on each train, and each compartment has Z seats. The permutations and combinations are infinite and so when the train stopped at the fifth station he was startled, astonished and unnerved to see two people - whom he once stayed with for a week on a remote tropical island - get on and sit less than six feet away from him. It wasn’t quarter to midnight and so he went up and said hello. They didn’t recognize him immediately but, after he reminded them of a curious incident or two during his stay on the island, the penny dropped. He took it as a sign to return to the island again. He hasn’t managed to go yet.

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit

2009-05-25T20:43:00.001+05:30

I was running up the stairs in the office – I’ve never been a walker when it comes to tackling staircases on my own – when I bumped into my editor. I’d been feeling a twinge of disappointment at not being given the New Zealand tour, even more so since last year’s trip to Pakistan had been scuttled because of security concerns. Those of the players, not mine.

My editor asked me what my plans for the summer were. Cricket, a few trips home, other holidays elsewhere, perhaps a wedding or two, I thought. Nothing in particular, I replied. He laughed and asked me if I intended to get married or something. He could have asked me what my plans for the next seven summers were; I’m that far from getting married. And then he said they were planning to send me to England for four months. Twenty20 World Cup, Ashes and daylight from 4.00 am to 9.30 pm. Awesome.

That was a few months ago. Since then, I’ve been planning for the trip and executing. Some things were easy, like making plans to drink beer by the Thames, others more painful, like fixing my teeth.

The first substance I ever tasted was a bit of chocolate, or so I’ve been told. And since then I’ve ignored my parents’ advice of eating a reasonable amount of sweets at a time, stolen from my sister’s share of goodies, and played the sympathy card to partake of my mother’s quota too. And I’m paying for it now, despite brushing twice a day. There were gaping holes in two teeth, a not-so-gaping one in another, and a few other patches of black on some others.

The cavities looked terrible but only one of them had hurt, and only once. The timing of the pain couldn’t have been worse, though. It was while I was in Malaysia for the under-19 World Cup in 2008. I had planned to do some traveling after the tournament but during the last week of games, my tooth began to ache. I remember not having any fun even though I was watching cricket, drinking beer and eating barbequed burgers from Australian fans because of the pain. I cancelled my travel plans and decided to go home and see a dentist. As soon as I landed in India, the damn pain mysteriously disappeared and I forgot all about it.

Dentists in London are frightfully expensive and so I made an appointment for a check up. I visited him ten more times, had about 25 anesthetic injections, had drills, ultraviolet light, and soldering irons put into my mouth, and then it was done. I had two shiny ceramic caps and several other fillings, a massive dent in my bank balance, but the ability to chew with confidence.

The trips to the dentist were far from terrible. I would get jabbed with the needle, my jaw would slacken, and I would listen to good music for two hours while he did his thing. The injections were a breeze too. What I hated was the gooey paste he used to make a mould of my tooth. Even though it tasted of fresh mint, it was gag inducing. It was probably due to the importance I give to texture and consistency of food. It’s why I detest brinjal, the only vegetable – a mass of pulpy, seedy muck – that I cannot put in my mouth. Disgustor. Would nutella taste as good if it had the consistency of brinjal, or the texture of paada?

Most of my free evenings – they were rare while the IPL was on – were spent at the dentist. My hair grew longer than it ever had, my laundry piled up, and my belly grew. I visited my family in Calicut, friends in Madras, cancelled some trips, and made unscheduled ones. I saw the prince of Pala get married too.

2009 has been a weird year. Never before have I heard bad news so regularly. Ragupathy thinks it’s because of shanni. There’s been a hilarious succession of complications with my England trip too. Details of accommodation, a cash advance, a new-fangled accounting process for travel expenses still need to be ironed out. If everything goes according to plan, I hope to be in London on Saturday.

It feels so right

2009-05-13T20:08:00.001+05:30

I was at work at 8am, seven and a half hours after I had left office the previous day. Sleepy, hungry and cranky. Then the phone rang and the news I heard in those four minutes made me genuinely happy. It’s a rare and precious emotion – genuine happiness. A feeling of selfless joy and it transformed my day instantly.

They’re a shining example to people who say long-distance is too hard. Theirs is a shining example of the effort it takes to make the most important things in life work. I’ve spent a lot of time in their company, through happy and not-so-happy times, (New Year’s Eve, even) and not once have I felt anything less than perfectly welcome. They are two of the best people I know. So here’s to the two of you. You deserve all the happiness that’s coming your way.

They let college go, and weren’t fazed,
They always have their purple haze.

A script from the crypt

2009-04-22T23:49:00.004+05:30

Decided to check one of my Yahoo mailboxes after a long time. Came across something I had written in 2004. I can't be sure what made me write it but I have a vague feeling that it was an incident in K nags - a couple of street kids wanted to watch a cricket match at one of the shops. The shopkeeper yelled at them. Another one asked them to come in and watch. I do remember when I wrote this - in Kausthab's room, in between mindless hours of playing MOHAA (or was it Miami Vice?).

**

I am entering a fancy theatre, going to watch the latest movie. My eyes wander to the stalls selling ‘Pepsi’ and ‘Popcorn’. I cannot read the signs but I know what they are from years of wondering what they taste like. Fifty rupees for a bottle of water? What am I doing here? My mind cannot fathom but my legs take me towards the inviting display of various temptations. My hand reaches into my pocket and draws out a wad of hundred rupee notes. I have never held a hundred rupee note in my hand before.

The fancy theatre fades away, the neon Pepsi and Popcorn signs are turned off. I am awake and reality bites hard. The five feet of stony floor which serves as my bed has been encroached upon by the limbs of the other sleeping children. We are seven, in a space meant for barely three. Seated at a table in the corner are my mother and father. Or at least I think they are. They have been around for as long as I can remember but my memory fails me often. They do not love me. They do not ill treat me either.

I set out, to seek my fortune that day. My stomach is racked with pangs of hunger. My elder brother had snatched away a sizable chunk of an already meagre dinner the previous night. I make my way to this large arch with lots of grassy ground around it. I do no know what it is called. I watch as groups of boys quarrel during a game of cricket. I watch longingly, hoping that they will ask me to join their game. They never do. Perhaps it’s because I’m too young, I tell myself.

It begins to rain. Suddenly everyone seems to be running trying to avoid getting wet as though the water would somehow scar them. I hear somebody say in dismay that her clothes are ruined. I smile. I have no such worries. I’m glad it is raining. I can wash myself. I used to have a bath in the fountains near the arch. But now they have a policeman there to stop us.

It must be a good day. Someone has left a packet of food behind on the grass. I do not have to worry about lunch anymore. I better get down to work, I tell myself. If I do not take home my share of alms my parents will be angry. I do not like to beg but I have never been taught another trade. Perhaps one day I will disobey my parents and refuse to beg, but not today. I wander up to cars, wiping their windscreens and knocking at their windows hoping some appreciation will be shown for my service. I rarely receive any. Soon my quota of alms for the day is done. I really have been lucky today.

I’m beginning to feel hungry again. A kind shopkeeper once gave me food when I did not have the energy to walk anymore. I find his shop easily. There’s a crowd in his shop, gathered around a television. Is that Dravid I see batting? My thoughts of hunger disappear as I worm my way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of the match. I may not know the name of that arch but I do know the name of everyone in the cricket team.

The match is over. It does not matter who won. I enjoyed the game. I try and watch whenever I can. As I make my way home my mind begins to wander. I’ve always wanted to watch the Indian team play. But they hardly ever come to this city. Perhaps I should go to Bangalore. I dismiss the thought as absurd.

Since that day, the thought of going to Bangalore kept coming back to me. I ignored it for a while but after a point I couldn’t. I am now in Bangalore. I don’t understand the language very well and I feel colder at night than I did before. I do not have the freedom that I did before. I have a job now. It’s a bit like gardening. I have to cut grass, dig up and relay the earth and when it rains I have to cover the ground at the Chinnaswamy stadium with big plastic sheets. And I get to see India play at least once a year.

**

Saw a familiar face on the bus today. Thought hard about where I had seen him before. Finally got it. He looked like an Indian Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson in The Shining). Same crazy eyes that wander all over the place, same thin mouth that droops downwards. Decided I had to take a photo with my phone. The resemblance was uncanny. Positioned camera into nonchalant yet strategic position, zoomed in as far as I could. Then saw pesky co-passenger peeking into my phone and decided to abort. What a prat.

Reality blogging

2009-04-21T23:38:00.003+05:30

I don't like reality television. Hate it in fact. But over the last two days I've become addicted to checking what purports to be an IPL player's blog. When I first read it on April 19, the blog had no followers and the profile had been viewed 30 times. Check it out now.

**

It's phone bill day in office. I tell a colleague I can guess what his bill amount is. He asks me to go ahead. Rs 8400, I tell him. He opens his bill. It's Rs. 8400.53. Freaky trivial coincidences haven't happened to me in a while.

**

Take the AC Volvo bus back from work to home. The traffic is heavier than usual. Get off at the Leela and seeing that the cars on my side of the road have come to a standstill, I wander across listening to the radio, not really paying attention to what's going on around me. I reach the divider and then begin to walk across because the other side of the road is empty. Suddenly someone grabs me and shoves me back, what the ... It's a cop and he's yelling in Kannada. Then I notice everyone standing around, not crossing the road. This hasn't happened to me since school. Storm clouds gather, the winds pick up, people are getting restless. I wonder what would happen if an ambulance needed to enter Manipal hospital. Then I hear a siren, not an ambulance, a cop car. Then another and then some more. I count 18 cars in the convoy and when one of them with funky aerials passed by, my cell phone radio burst into static. Signal jammers. Cops relent and people on both sides cross the road like the parted Red Sea coming to rest.

Khao suey!

2009-04-16T22:54:00.000+05:30

In 2006, I can’t remember exactly when, I attended a workshop where I met one of the prettiest women I have ever met. We went out for dinner one evening to Lemon Grass in Bandra. I’d never been there. She had, and didn’t need to look at the menu. She wanted khao suey. I told her I didn’t know what khao suey was. She was shocked, much like I was when Tawakeley told me he had never eaten drumsticks before a surprising day in college when there was some in our sambar. She asked for the chicken khao suey, I got the beef. An hour later, it became one of my favourite dishes.

I went back to Lemon Grass a couple of times and always had khao suey. I haven’t found a restaurant in Bangalore that serves it.

It’s a pretty easy to make, just that you need a lot of ingredients, and company is always welcome (was cooking with a colleague). Took a kilo of boneless chicken, cut it up into small uniform pieces and ran it under a tap. Rubbed the washed pieces with grated garlic, ginger and crushed pepper corns and mixed some fresh lemon juice into the meat. Left it for a while to let the marinade do its thing.

Roasted lots of spices - coriander seeds, tumeric, methi, red chillies, pepper etc – and powdered them in a mixer. Cut up onions, garlic, ginger, and whipped them in the blender as well. Added some masala powder to the onion-ginger-garlic paste and let it cook in a wok. Added the roasted spices to the wok and used some water to let the mixture reach the right consistency.

Browned the chicken in another pan before adding it to the spices. Cooked the whole shebang for a while before adding the crucial ingredient – coconut milk. Didn’t make the effort to make fresh coconut milk, used Dabur. Curry done.

What makes khao suey so awesome is the garnish. Cut spring onions and coriander and mixed them together. Fried onions and garlic. Kept the oil in which the onions and garlic were fried. Made a sauce with red chillies – similar to the one we used to eat with momos – and mixed it with the onion and garlic flavoured oil. Boiled some eggs and sliced them up (sounds weird but tastes good). Sliced a few lemons into wedges. Cut up a few green chillies too. Kept all the garnishes in separate bowls.

Made noodles. Preferably rice noodles. Ran noodles under cold water after they were cooked to avoid sticking and lumping together. Served everything in separate dishes. You create according to your taste. I took some noodles, dunked a whole lot of chicken and coconut-milk gravy over them, covered it with a sprinkling of spring onions, coriander, fried onions, fried garlic and green chilies. The eggs I kept on the side and ate with the red chilli sauce. Squeezed lime over the whole thing. Quite terrific, it was. Wish I had taken a picture, it looked pretty too.

Had vanilla ice cream with caramelized walnuts and amaretto for dessert. I’m going to get fatter!

Radio haha

2009-04-15T21:29:00.006+05:30

A few people looked at me curiously when I laughed out loud (twice) while on the bus to work (AC Volvo rocks, no more bastard auto-drivers). Here’s why:

Radio Indigo RJ: So do you know the next few lines of the song?
Girl with Convent-School Voice: Yes, yes.
RJ: So will you sing them for me?
GwC-SV: Most definitely.
RJ plays the first line of the song (I feel you creeping, I can see it from my shadow ...)
GwC-SV, in a voice that could have been singing Amazing Grace: Wanna jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo
Maybe go to my place and just kick it like Tae Bo
And possibly bend you over, look back and watch me

Smack that, all on the floor
Smack that, give me some more
Smack that, 'til you get sore

Kids these days!

**

Spelling competition on the radio. Contestent No 1. Damn I forgot his name.

RJ: Ready for your first word?
Contestant (bubbling with enthusiasm): Yes.
RJ: Spell miniscule. It means something tiny.
Contestant: M-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: Did you hear me correctly? M-i-n-i-s-c-u-l-e
Contestent: Yes yes, m-i-n-u-s-q-e
RJ: OK that’s wrong. Next word – syllable.
Contestant: S-y-l-a-b-e-l.
RJ: Right, that’s wrong too. The last one is easy – professor.
Sheepish contestant: P-r-o-f-e-s-s-o-r.

Hooray!

I'm terrible with spellings too. Rarely remember that 'i' comes before 'e' except after 'c'. Had to check the spelling of receive (and similar words) for the longest time. And I thought miniscule was the right spelling for minuscule. Google gives me both. Confused now.

Tolerance

2009-04-15T11:12:00.001+05:30

“George, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a family.” My mother said that to me on one of my short trips home. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised it’s true. Living away from my parents and sister since 2001, in pleasant and hostile places, has resulted in the development of a character that is at odds with a family environment.

I’ve never lived alone, always with friends (or random strangers in Mumbai), and with friends you always have the option of switching off. With friends, I don’t need to talk, or listen, about issues that I don’t want to. Topics that cause annoyance can easily be avoided. Bad moods can be sequestered in a locked bed room. In Bangalore, I’m only taking care of myself. I think about when I have to wake up, what I want to eat, how much TV I’d like to watch, how I’d like to spend my time etc. When on my own, my exposure to situations that irritate is kept to a minimum. It’s all about taking care of number one. I take pride in my patience, anger isn’t worth the energy, I tell myself. I don’t know whether that’s true though because everything changes when I’m with family.

My 13-year old cousin called my short-tempered recently. I had snapped at him and my sister for doing something as trivial as making a racket while a Twenty20 game was on TV. At home, I cannot ignore topics of conversation that I don’t want to talk about, I’m exposed to issues that I’m not a part of, I cannot tell my family to stop asking me these questions like I would if it were a friend. I cannot spend a bad mood secluded in my room. I cannot do things only according to my schedule. It may sound trivial but these minor issues stretch the vast quantities of patience I think I possess and I invariably show irritation before reeling myself in.

The massive, and obvious, difference is that at home I have to think about other people and accommodate their conveniences. In Bangalore I only think of my well-being. It’s a shockingly selfish existence and one that I’m beginning to feel less proud of. I love visiting my family. I just don’t like how alien normal family life feels to me.

**

PS: Always listen to your parents (most of the times at least). Had I listened to my mom a year ago I wouldn't be shelling out thousands of rupees for root canal treatment today.

The fine tradition of men in my family

2009-04-14T12:16:00.002+05:30

My dad makes awesome desserts. My uncle is a terrific cook too. They both started their forays in the kitchen only after they were much older so my belief that I possess a latent reservoir of culinary talent isn’t wholly unfounded.

So last night, I finally made banoffee pie (after thinking about it for two weeks). Went to supermarket to buy ingredients. No hobnobs, so settled for Marie biscuits and also picked up butter, bananas, condensed milk, fresh cream and chocolate.

Came home. Filled pressure cooker with water, heated it until boiling point, dunked the tin of condensed milk into the vessel, and covered with lid. (Firmly believe that condensed milk - and nutella - is a substance best consumed with a spoon right from the tin. Using it in dessert, on bread, etc merely dilutes its awesomeness.)

Left tin in boiling water for two hours. Sugar takes its own sweet time to caramalise and turn condensed milk into toffee. Drank beer to pass time.

Washed hands thoroughly with soap and dried them before crushing each Marie biscuit in my fist with brute force while thinking violent thoughts about something. Some biscuit chunks, however, were still larger than ideal. Transferred broken and battered biscuits into plastic cover and attacked it with rolling pin, while thinking violent thoughts about something. Said serenity prayer.

Melted three tablespoons of butter. Poured it into the powdered biscuits and mixed with care. Transferred biscuit-butter mix into round bowl and flattened to make the base. Shoved it into the refrigerator.

Took condensed milk tin out of boiling water after two hours (advisable to use mittens). Left for cooling. Sliced up a few small bananas. Thin slices. Scattered them over biscuit base.

Moment of truth. Time to open tin of condensed milk. Took care not to snap lever on top of the tin. Smiled as the substance inside is exactly the same colour and consistency (which is crucial) as Videojug said it should be. Scooped gloopy toffee out of tin and left it to cool.

Pour fresh cream into bowl and whisk it. Soon hand begins to ache and cream is thicker but not thick enough. Muscles begin to groan. Settle for the thickness achieved, cream wins the battle. Must invest in egg beater to prevent future defeats while whipping cream. Stick tough cream in refrigerator.

Spread toffee over the banana which is on the biscuit base. Spread evenly and press it down firmly to achieve compactness. Pour less-than-ideally-thick cream over banana toffee mixture. Grate chocolate over cream. Refrigerate for some more time while eating ham, mushroom and tomato sauce pasta and drinking beer. Good times.

Religion

2009-04-14T11:12:00.003+05:30

I've never liked to discuss religion. Never understood those who make exhibitions of their piety, never agreed with those who diss it either. Always thought it best to leave each to their own, as long as they don't try and impose their beliefs on me. Each person has to deal with so many issues and if appealing to a higher power gives him/her comfort and peace of mind - that's the whole point, isn't it?

Over the Easter weekend, I took part in more religious activity (Good Friday and Easter Sunday services) than I had done during the whole of last year, not counting weddings and a funeral. Falling out of the habit of going to church is something I regret and I aim to remedy that in the weeks and months to come.

I’ve been through several phases with regard to my attitude towards religion. As I kid, I used to attend regularly (of course my parents made me), sit in the front row and sing loudly from the hymn book. As I grew older, waking up to attend the 6.30 am mass was a little more of a pain but it was alright. Catechism classes, however, weren’t. I hardly attended any (my parents didn’t make me either) and I got an earful from the priest when I went to him for a letter for my college applications. He actually asked my dad to leave the room before letting rip.

The three years in college and following one spent in Delhi was probably the most religious phase of my life. I didn’t do anything extra apart from spending five minutes in the college chapel every morning and attending Sunday mass but I felt I began to understand why my parents made me go to church every week and said prayers every night. It was probably also an attempt to hold on to something important from my past as everything changed in college. Missing the Good Friday service in my first year because of bhaang was something I regretted deeply at the time.

I began to fall out of the church-going habit when I shifted to Bombay. I blamed it on the fact that I had to work on some Sundays. The regularity increased after moving to Bangalore in 2006 but once again died a few months later. Again the primary excuse was a working Sunday. However, I began to see a pattern. In college, the one year in Delhi after college, and for several months after moving to Bangalore, I had company to go to church. In Bombay, I didn’t, and now in Bangalore, I don’t. Having people to go with – my parents as a kid, and friends during my years away from home – was a crucial factor. And that really isn’t the point, is it?

I tried to remember the prayers I had learnt as a child a few days ago. Unlike Christmas carols, I could remember only a handful. One prayer, though, has stayed with me through times of faith and otherwise. What it asks for, in my opinion, is all that a person needs for peace of mind. And it brings me that, whenever I say it, if only for a little while. Is it worrying that my favourite prayer has been adopted by Alcoholics Anonymous?

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

Allergies

2009-04-11T22:01:00.002+05:30

There it was, lying on my plate. Curled up and shriveled, a mixture of white, orange and red. Should I? Shouldn’t I? The last time it had caused my lips to swell and I thought my puffed tongue would slip down the back of my throat. When was the last time? I can’t be sure but it had to be at least eight years ago. Barring the one time Madhu Mohan brought some to college and I tried a little while under the influence.

My mother said I should try some in the afternoon, in case something went wrong in the night. I asked her if we had the necessary medicine. I had made a light-hearted suggestion earlier – that she put some powdered tablets into the rest of the ingredients.

So there was nothing left to do but go for it. Or not. But I went, skewering, chewing (well not really, because of the initial apprehension) and swallowing. Waited a minute. It was probably more. Was that an itch growing at the back of my throat? Ate another one. Is my mouth swelling? I could feel an irritation but it was largely psychological. Apprehensions overcome. Imaginary self-congratulatory high-five before tucking in.

I can eat prawns again. I had some for dinner too.

Happy Good Friday

2009-04-10T12:15:00.000+05:30

“Happy Good Friday.” I’ve had that said to me once, a long time ago, and I remember taking the time to explain to the person that Good Friday was not a ‘happy’ day but a solemn occasion marked by fasting and introspection (which I have rarely done). The person’s ignorance amused me and I put the exchange into my bag of insignificant anecdotes.

It also made me recall a time when I didn’t know how to wish a person on Eid, Ramzan and other Muslim festivals. Did I have to say Eid Mubarak all the time? I remember that greeting being exchanged most often, and on different days of the year. Or maybe I was mistaken.

I also began to wonder how many religions have important days that are not meant for celebration. My knowledge of Hindusim, Islam, and Judaism is limited to their happy festivals. Other religions I barely know anything about. I guess I could have a “Happy Good Friday” moment too.

**

Another greeting that caused me to cringe was hearing or seeing the words “Happy Xmas”. “Happy Christmas” was bad enough (it just doesn’t sound as right as “Merry Christmas”) but Xmas used to annoy me to no end. I thought it was a random bastardization of the name and never bothered to look it up. I should have because Xmas was derived from somewhere. I understand it now, but I still don’t like it.

Stash your trash

2009-04-09T16:36:00.001+05:30

I don’t like fat. It’s a problem, considering how much I like things that make me fat. So far I’ve been able to keep it under control (I think). Tried cycling to and from work but it made me too sweaty and there’s no shower in the office. Tried aerobics but my work timings didn’t allow me to attend regularly. Tried the gym too but I got bored. So now I walk back from work. It’s a wimpy 5km walk but with regularity I hope it will work.

There is, however, a cycling movement in Bangalore, to reduce pollution in the city. I heard them talk about Go Green on Radio Indigo, which I listen to while walking back home. They urge people to stop traveling by cars and bikes whenever possible and pedal instead. It’s a cause that I can identify with because I sometimes choke because of the pollution in certain stretches of my walk back. Unfortunately I don’t think I have a molecule of social service in me so all I can offer them is my approval.

So one day I’m walking down Airport road and I see this peloton whizzing past. Young people, old people, middle-aged people, fat people, thin people, girls, boys riding on cycles. They were wearing t-shirts that said Go Green but drew more attention because cyclists in India do not usually wear helmets and elbow and knee protectors. There must have been about fifty of them which pleased and surprised me.

Then one of the cyclists right at the back of the pack, he was drinking water from one of those plastic packets that you can buy. They used to cost Re 1 back in the day. After he was done, he raised his hand and flung the packet on to the road. What a wanker.

No place like home, eh?

2009-04-09T13:59:00.006+05:30

A strange thing happened during my last visit to Madras. I stopped an auto-rickshaw and asked the driver to take me to Besant Nagar and only after he asked me for Rs 120 for a seven-kilometer ride did I realise that I had spoken to him in Hindi, and not Tamil.

For people who know me from school, as a boy who understood but spoke no Tamil, who replied in English when spoken to in Tamil, the conversation may not have seemed out of place. For those who know me from college and after, as someone who slimed out of his compulsory Hindi test, who didn’t know the meaning of mohabbat, and who was dragged against his will to his first Hindi movie in college only in third year, the thought of me speaking to a Madras auto-driver in Hindi would perhaps seem more absurd.

For me, the moment captured the disconnect I was feeling with a city that was home for 18 years, and one that I called home for the next seven. While at St. Michael’s, I spent my time in Adayar (school), Besant Nagar (cricket, football), and Valmiki Nagar (home, cricket, beach), shuttling between each on my Streetcat and Hercules. My carefree existence reflected in my favourite story characters – Peter Pan, Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, Robin Hood, and the children of the Magical Faraway Tree.

The question of what to do with myself in Madras did not arise. There were options of playing in school, Besant, or Valmiki and in the unlikely event that these options came to nothing, I would head to the beach with a tennis ball, a football and swimming trunks. Company was always easy to find but even without it, I’d entertain myself by taking to the water on my own, heading beyond the white breakers, to where the water once again became shallow.

I didn’t drink in school so pubs and clubs (were there any before 2001?) I never thought about until I came home from college for the holidays. Even then I used to loathe forgoing my daily evening routine of cricket, football and the beach. Company, however, was not as easy to find and the sea had become too dirty to swim in, so the occasional free evening would be spent at home or at a pub with people from college. For some reason I never drank with friends from school until years later. Perhaps it was because alcohol did not have a place during the time I formed those bonds.

Trips to Madras grew few and far between once I started working in Delhi, then Bombay and now Bangalore. And when I did visit, my friends would try and get enough people together for a game, but I’d be lucky if I was able to play on consecutive days. It felt good to go back, though, and there was reason to, because there was always family. We’ve lived in seven houses in Madras. I have vivid memories of only six.

We don’t stay in Madras anymore though. I cannot book my tickets first and call home to say I am coming only later. Adayar and Valmiki Nagar, I don’t visit. My friends whom I played and fought with have left the city, others I’ve lost touch with. The beaches seem alien, though I still feel the urge to see whether the seabed at 4^th Seaward falls away sharply before rising rapidly a few hundred meters out. I now stay and visit places that I need directions to find and it feels strange and dependent to have to make plans to fill up my day.

Chennai isn’t home anymore. It’s a hot, humid city with a polluted sea and auto drivers who politely rip you off. I don’t want to let go just yet though, and I don’t think I will until the city has nobody in it that I want to see. So where's home now? My parents live in Calicut, but I don't really know.

Breathing underwater

2008-06-27T14:01:00.002+05:30

We were finally going snorkeling and scuba diving on our second morning in Havelock. The sun had been up for nearly an hour and a half by the time we woke up at half past six and dashed off to the dive shop to sort out gear, eat a hurried breakfast and be on the boat by 7.00 am. Sayeed and Evelyn, who was from the country that gave the world a meal in a glass - Guinness, were to be our instructors. Our destination was Elephant beach, an hour or so away by boat.

Elephant beach was where they took scuba virgins for their first experience because they had to learn the basics in shallow water before taking a direct plunge off the boat into deep seas. We weren’t the only first-timers on our boat – Aidan and Aidane (I’ve forgotten her name) were from Kazakhstan. Now Aidan was dressed in a white shirt with red flowers on it and a grey cowboy hat. Vinod and I tried hard not to make our amusement obvious and I think we succeeded.

The boat ride gave us some time to catch up on sleep and also take in the mangroves along the coast. Sayeed gave us some basic dive-theory lessons – signs under water, how not to panic when you drink seawater, or when you descend too quickly and find yourself among some creepy corals.

Once we got to Elephant beach, we were given our gear and began to get suited up. The wetsuits are a snug fit and the scuba apparatus was much lighter than I thought it would be. Sayeed and Evelyn could take only one person each at a time so Aidan and Aidane went first, while Tanaya and I used the time to snorkel. Vinod also snorkeled, he didn’t know how to swim but Benjy, the boy who drove the boat, took him using a float. I can never understand why people are afraid of the water, perhaps because I’ve felt at home in it ever since I was little, but it took a lot of courage for Vinod to go out all the way into deep water.

Snorkelling was an outstanding experience. There were fishes of myriad colours and varying sizes and watching them swim in the coral reefs was quite thrilling. In a short while, we would experience a greater thrill, swimming among the fish on the sea bed.

When you are snorkeling, with your face down in the water, focused on the action happening below, you can easily lose sense of time and direction. So when suddenly the reef drops away into the dark blue of the deep sea, it’s a chilling feeling. Suddenly visions of bigger fish, and more dangerous fish, dominate the imagination and I got back into shallower water as soon as I could.

By the time we got back to the boat it was our turn to dive. Once we got our gear back on, we had to wait a while because Aidan wanted to take a video of the diving experience. So we play acted a little bit and looked serious and then it was time to go.

Breathing underwater is a funny experience and controlling your buoyancy takes some practice. Sayeed and Evelyn could rise and fall by controlling their breathing, we had to primarily rely on a button, which when pressed, fills and releases a compartment in the backpack with air. While snorkeling, all the fish you marveled at were about 20 feet below us, now they were at touching distance and, although we were encouraged not to touch the marine life, they swam right past out faces.

I’d been told that my chances of seeing sharks or manta rays at Elephant beach were close to nil for they inhabited deeper waters but sea snakes and octopi were real possibilities. I scrutinized every part of the reef in the hope of seeing either and just before we were about to ascend for the final time, I caught sight of what I thought was a long tentacle in a cranny between two corals. That tentacle, however, wasn’t a tentacle attached to a supreme specimen of the mollusc family, it was a rather enormous sea slug.

After tea and Hide and Seek on the beach we headed back to Dive India. Aidan, whose back by now was burnt bright red posed repeatedly for his camera on the bow of the boat, pointing into the distance. He put the tourist in Vinod to shame even.

Lunch, volleyball, swimming and a bath took up the afternoon and soon everyone was talking about whether they were going to attend a full-moon party at a nearby resort, for which we had been given invites the previous day at Beach No 7. The party promised a bonfire and retro music from the 70s so it seemed like a good way to spend the night

There was no retro music but there was a bonfire so we sat around with our beers and chilled for a bit. Niall bought us a round of drinks which was nice of him so I repaid the courtesy by giving him a beer bottle filled with sea water, after which I really repaid the courtesy by buying him a beer. There were these two clowns who were prancing in the name of dance near the bonfire and one of them – evidently hammered – lost balance dangerously close to the fire and had to jump over the pit.

At some point in the evening, Lukas said “Guys, many years from now if the full moon paarty at Havelock becomes famous like the annual paarties in Thailand, we can say that we were there at the first one.”

The party, however, wasn’t too hot so we spent most of the evening by the beach. Maria Lukas and I headed off for a walk along the beach but our route was blocked by the Dolphin Nivas boundary ball which jutted into the water. We clambered around the slippery rocks that bordered it, me worrying about the sea water reaching the iPod in my pocket, until we could go no further.

It was here that Lukas told us about how he had been bitten by a dog and had not visited a doctor because someone told him there was no rabies on Havelock. I said he was crazy and he should have got it checked anyway. I hate stray dogs and have had my fair share of escapes from them. It’d already been a while since he got bitten so if the dog had rabies it was probably a bit late to do anything. I haven’t heard from Lukas since we left Havelock. I hope Niall was right when he reconfirmed that rabies didn’t exist on the island.

Dhaka diary

2008-06-07T23:15:00.002+05:30

I'm taking a break from the chronicling of my Andamans holiday, primarily because I'm exhausted but also because I have one eye on the Euro 2008 opener, where one of my two teams, the Czech Republic (the other being the Netherlands) are about to get away with a thoroughly undeserved victory.

A month ago I'd planned to watch this game at one of the several pubs in Bangalore which have Euro offers. Never did I imagine I'd end up watching it from a hotel room in Dhaka.

From the airplane, the first thing I noticed about Dhaka were the numerous waterlogged areas. The monsoon was beginning in Bangladesh and i was here to cover a cricket tournament.

The duty free shop at Zia International Airport looked limited in terms of variety from a distance. I didn't check it out because I had switched on to tour mode. I will drop in on my way back. Whiskey anyone?

The crowd outside the airport had to be seen to be believed. The man who came to pick us up said it was because several flights from West Asia were landing at the time and the people had come to receive their relatives. I couldn't help but picture a similar scene in Kerala.

The roads reminded me of India. There were several Maruti cars, most of them were battered taxis. Toyotas were also very common.

This is the first time I'm in a place where I can't communicate with the locals at all. Even in Delhi I can get by easily with my Hindi. I've had to use sign language most of the time so I'm glad I'm good at dumb charades. It's a pity though because chatting with the locals is something I look forward to in a new place. I did manage to travel across the city on my own though.

The auto drivers here are caged. Whether it's for their protection, or mine, I don't know but the portions through which they could hit you or you could hit them are barred.

The naan I ate for dinner last night as well and tonight is the best I've had. It even beats Karim's. I think I'll have it tomorrow as well. The Bangladesh beef is also worthy though not as worthy as Kerala beef.

Remember good old RC Cola? You get it here.

Beach bumming at No 7

2008-06-06T23:03:00.000+05:30

The sun sets by half past five at Havelock so it’s criminal to waste any more day-light than is absolutely necessary. We were up by around 7.30 am on our first morning at Island Vinnie’s and headed for the sea. Swimming in the ocean in Madras used to make me want to rush into a bathroom for a fresh water bath soon after I was done with the waves but, at Havelock, the water was such that you didn’t feel sticky or salty.

You could get breakfast until around 9.30 am so I headed straight to the dining hall after the swim, shaking off the sand before I entered of course. The menu was rather limited: coffee or tea, eggs of a few kinds, toast, banana pancakes and … nutella pancakes. I had nutella pancakes everyday for breakfast, and sometimes a second time as dessert after lunch or dinner.

With no snorkeling or scuba-diving scheduled, we had the first day at Havelock to ourselves and we decided to rent a couple of scooters and ride around the island. The Beach No 7 at Radhanagar was voted the best beach in Asia by Time magazine so it was an obvious destination. Shankar, who made our stay there extremely smooth, organized the wheels while we were eating. There were three of us, and hence one empty seat on one of the scooters, a place which Maria would come to occupy. We were all set to leave but there was a slight delay when we heard the police were coming to investigate the events of the night before.

We didn’t want to wait so we recounted the details of the intruder’s visit to Vinnie and then headed towards Beach No 7. Havelock’s roads are largely empty and although they curve and bend, you can zip along at your own pace as long as you’re careful at corners. The roads, however, are narrow and every once in a while a Jeep will bear down on you at top speed and nearly run you off the road. I’m not exaggerating.

Radhanagar was about a 20-minute ride from Island Vinnie’s and by the time we reached the sun was out in tremendous force. Not fazed, we dabbed on the sunblock and headed on to the best beach I have ever seen. The white sand began where the tropical jungle ended and led into tepid blue waters. There was the occasional wave which I could let ram into me and most importantly, there were precious few people.

We’d been told of a lagoon a fair distance away from where we parked so we began to walk, rushing into the water when it got too hot and climbing trees along the way. The sea was deeper here but I went out a fair bit for the waters were calm. We eventually got to the lagoon and, although there were a few others there, managed to find a secluded spot and headed into the water once again. We hadn’t brought any snorkeling equipment with us but there was this dude who was chilling on his hammock so I went up and borrowed his.

I’d never snorkeled before so when I put on the mask and dunked my head in the water, the last thing I expected to see were large fish and crabs right where my foot had been moments before. There was quite a bit to see but nothing compared to what I would see over the next two days …

We’d have loved to stay on that beach all day but we got hungry and began to make the long walk back to our scooters. Tanaya and Maria bought cold mineral water at tourist prices of Rs 20 a bottle (I think the shop keeper threw in a few bananas as well) but Vinod and I decided to drink fresh coconut water. It wasn’t very good though, the nuts had been boiling in the sun and my water was hot!

On the way back, Tanaya and I took a detour to the local tehka by the jetty only to find it closed. An extremely polite man was willing to source us chilled beer at Rs 80 a bottle but we declined, deciding that 30 was too much to pay over the market price.

Back at island Vinnies’s, lunch was a large fillet of fish prepared according to what the menu called “Jackson’s Mom’s recipe” (Jackson is one of the dive instructors). Essentially it was fish doused in garlic sauce, a hint of lemon and a few chillies. The key factor though was the freshness of the fish. Nutella pancakes followed of course …

Now after lunch, it was siesta time for Tanaya and Vinod. I have never been able to sleep in the afternoon right from the days when amma used to ask me to go to sleep because we were going to see a night show. I wouldn’t and then I’d promptly crash during the movie. So while they slept and recharged for the night’s activities, I hammocked for an hour – waiting lunch to digest before heading for a swim. The tide was low so I had to walk really far out before the water reached my thigh. Eventually I got really frustrated and decided to head back to shore where a few of the boat boys were playing volley-ball. Now I’ve never played volley-ball before (in school only the girls played it) but decided to go for it. I was appalling in the first game and I could make out the slightly-amused, slightly-annoyed the boys were giving me as I goofed point after point. By the end of our stay, however, I was not too bad.

The beer still needed to be bought so I set off on the scooter with a backpack. They didn’t have Kingfisher so Fosters it had to be. When I told the guy I wanted five bottles, he raised his eyebrows and said he could sell me just one. He thought I was a local and I don’t know, maybe some of the locals buy in bulk and then bootleg at higher prices. I finally did head back with five bottles, which we had just before dinner.

Sayeed and Maria joined us later outside our tent for more Malibu and then Niall turned up and entertained us with all sorts of stories. I forget the details of his method of remembering complicated Indian names but it was quite priceless.

There were no intruders that night.

Andaman adventure - Intruder in the night

2008-06-04T17:12:00.004+05:30

There’s a photograph on my desktop. It’s of a pristine ocean of varying shades of blue, and sand so white that you have to look closely to see where the beach ends and the water begins. I look at it everyday and want to go back, eventually. Havelock was that sort of place.

The urge to go on holiday had been growing. I’d been on short trips to Madras, Bombay, Delhi and work’s taken me elsewhere as well but now I wanted to go somewhere different. On a whim I decided on the Andamans. Finding company is usually a problem for trips that require time and money but it turned out that Tanaya and Vinod were as keen to go as I was.

A couple of weeks later, we caught sight of the first island as the airplane circled Port Blair. It was thickly forested, a patch of dark green surrounded by brilliant white beaches and waters that blended from light blue to turquoise and finally into dark blue as the reef and ocean shelf fell away into deep waters. Through the flight I kept thinking up adventurous news headlines “Boy loses leg while wrestling shark” and “Tourist over-powers crocodile in Mangrove battle”. I may have banged on for a bit too long but Tanaya and Vinod engtertained my excitement.

The searing combine of heat and humidity hit us as soon as we set foot on the tarmac It was to be expected, visiting a tropical island in April, and it felt like Madras, only greener.

I forget the name of the person who came to meet us at the airport. He took us from to the jetty from where we were to catch the 2.00 pm ferry to Havelock Island. Our flight had landed at around noon so we spent quality time in a waiting room that was so filthy that we thought twice before sitting down. You’d think that tourism being one of the Andamans’ primary industries they’d take the trouble to keep such places clean. It was possibly the second dirtiest room I’d been in, the first being Montgomery’s in Hyderabad.

Tanaya, Vinod and I finally boarded the Baratang, the steamer that would take a couple of hours to reach Havelock. The crowd comprised primarily of foreign tourists, locals, and us. We sat in the belly of the boat with our luggage, sweating off calories in the oppressive humidity. After failed attempts to catch up on sleep, we decided to take a walk and discovered the deck, where the sea breeze and the spray from the wake of the boat made the rest of the journey extremely pleasant.

We got to Havelock around 4.00pm and loaded our stuff into a jeep, I hadn’t traveled in one since I was a kid in Kerala, which would take us to Island Vinnie’s aka Dive India, our home for the next four days. We weren’t alone; there was a German traveler, Maria, who had come to Havelock to scuba dive.

Island Vinnie’s is basically a diving school, and because the Andamans is such a fabulous place to dive, people from all over the world come to stay there. It’s a small place with about 14 -16 tents and hammocks tied between coconut trees, situated at a stone’s throw from the sea. The best thing about Island Vinnie’s is that they let you be. No one comes and asks you whether you need this or that, which is great by my book, but they’re happy to assist you the moment you ask. And they had two lovely dogs. I don’t like all dogs – the first impression is very important – but Frodo and Sam were great.

Less than 30 minutes after we arrived, we were in the sea. On my way to the beach, I stopped to find out who Sayeed was. He was Yohan’s friend who quit his job in Chennai and came to Dive India to learn how to become a scuba-diving instructor … The water was a Goldilocks-like temperature and it was so clear that we could see out feet. There were no waves and even if we walked out for nearly a kilometer the water wouldn’t rise above our necks – like a swimming pool without limits.

That evening we ate dinner in the common dining area – the food isn’t all that flash but if you like fresh fish you’re in luck. The fare was a little thinner for Tanaya and Vinod – the vegetarians! The ambience was excellent though: there was music playing (we played stuff from our iPods too), the lighting was mellow and we sat around listening to travel and diving stories from other people staying at the place. Punarvasu and Upendra were two film-makers from Bombay who were shooting at Havelock, Niall was a half-Punjabi, half-Irish diver, Maria had been traveling the world for the last eight months, as had Lucas, who was from the Czech Republic, whose football team incidentally I hope reaches the finals of Euro 2008.

That night, we brought out the alcohol we’d stocked up in Bangalore and were drinking Malibu outside out tents. It was approaching midnight when we heard a rustling in the grass near us and a sizable crab made its way past us. Vinod and I began to paint pictures of creatures entering Tanaya’s tent and I threatened to come in and steal her fan.

Later that night, a few hours after we’d gone to bed, Tanaya heard someone enter her tent. The tents didn’t have locks on them, just Velcro straps but security was not considered to be an issue. Thinking it was me, Tanaya called out. The intruder did not attempt to steal anything or attack anyone but he pushed over the fan, smashing it in the process. Vinod and I didn’t hear any of this in the adjacent tent but we woke up when we heard a frenetic scratching outside our door. Some one was trying to get in. A polite “Excuse me, who’s there?” from Vinod was enough to send the person running but moments later we heard a lady screaming from another tent, “Get out of the tent … show yourself … step into the light”. It went on for about ten seconds and in our 2.00 am daze, we took that much time to bolt out of our tents. What Vinod saw was the silhouette of someone running towards the sea.

We saw later that the intruder had also smashed the lights outside the tents. After much discussion with Vinnie, whom we roused, we went back to sleep for a few hours. We had considered moving to another place but our concerns disappeared with the morning.

More to follow …

Climbing out of a rut

2008-05-13T18:02:00.003+05:30

To call it a rut is perhaps being a little extreme. It's more of a routine that I've become very comfortable with. Since I've moved to Bangalore, and started living with colleagues who are now friends, my life has centered around cricket. Work, of course is cricket-centric; conversations at home even though they have varied origins, gravitate towards cricket; and even most friends I meet outside of work invariably begin to ask me for inside dope about what's happening in the sport. And I'm not complaining ... I love the sport, I'm pretty good at playing it, and I enjoy my job.

Nevertheless, the urge to do something different from the work-home-pub-food-cricket routine has been growing. It was that urge that made me take off to the Andamans with two friends. A holiday, no an adventure, that was undoubtedly my best trip ever. It was reassuring to have such an experience once again especially since the general feeling was that the great times were over and done with once College ended.

I've been meaning to write about the Andamans but I've been lazy. It takes effort to write outside of work when all you do at work is write. But I shall post. Not now though, for I'm off to meet two delightful people, who will not talk to me about cricket.

India are the off-field Australia

2008-01-09T09:29:00.000+05:30

The Sydney Test between Australia and India – one that had five centuries – and a result achieved in the tensest of circumstances, with less than ten minutes remaining in the match, should have been an excellent advertisement for Test cricket. It wasn’t. Instead a hard-fought Test further exposed the game’s ill-health, a sickness that has been escalating over the last few years.

The Australian team are champions but they aren’t loved – even admired - by many Australians. Has any other sport had its best exponents so severely criticised by their supporters? The ICC runs cricket but every once in a while, when the BCCI feels that things haven’t gone their way, there’s a flexing of biceps to remind everyone where the power in international cricket really lies. And what is most worrying is the umpiring; there have been three major umpiring cock-ups since June 2006 – the ball tampering issue at The Oval, the failure to interpret the rules correctly during the World Cup final, and the sheer incompetence on display in Sydney. All the incidents have involved the most experienced of the ICC’s elite, which speaks poorly of the custodians of the game.

There’s no doubt that India were done in by the umpires during the Sydney Test, and that the Australians stepped over from the play “hard but fair” ground into the “whatever it takes to win” zone, and that Harbhajan – who may have called Symonds a monkey but was either lucky or clever enough to do it out of earshot of the umpires – was pronounced a racist on the basis of “he said, she said” rather than hard evidence. All off the above are independent events but India, actually the Indian media, have painted a picture where all the villains – Bucknor and Benson, Ponting and Clarke, and Procter – have colluded and left our heroes no other option but to, as one TV channel exaggerated, “fight for our honour”.

(Nevermind that India’s over-rate was slow despite Kumble and Harbhajan bowling the majority of the overs, that Tendulkar survived a close lbw shout against Clarke early in his first innings, or that Ishant Sharma tried to waste a couple of the dying minutes on the fifth day by coming out with two right-hand gloves – these are small crimes when compared to the greater injustice meted out to us.)

Teams have lost Tests because of poor umpiring before, players have been banned for racism before, and did India really expect Australia to play like gentlemen after the animosity that has been evident since the World Twenty20 and the one-day series in India? Why did Anil Kumble agree to Ponting’s offer to take the fielder’s word on a close catch when every other captain that Ponting has offered it to has declined? It begs the question, if Greg Chappell were coach; wouldn’t he have prepared India for hostility and cut-throat cricket that the Australians revert to the moment they are challenged?

There’s no doubt that India had the high ground during the Sydney Test – they played in better spirit, controlled their tempers despite endless umpiring blunders, and unless the ICC reveals concrete proof, the opinion that Harbhajan was unfairly convicted will stand. But the high ground ends there.

The ICC said that they removed Bucknor from the Perth Test to diffuse the mounting tension and not because they bowed to the hard line stance taken by the BCCI that the tour could be cancelled if Bucknor was allowed to stay. Who are they trying to fool? The playing conditions says that neither team has the right to demand that an umpire be removed mid-way through the series, an ICC spokesperson said so himself, when they backed Bucknor initially. What caused the volte-face? Does this mean that anytime a team feels that an umpire has got it in for them, they can get him removed? No it doesn’t, for very few other boards has the BCCI’s ability to pressurize in ICC. The $2 million dollar fine – apart from the lost TV and advertising revenue – would have been a small loss for the BCCI, for West Indies or New Zealand the financial blow would have been crippling.

The other volatile situation – the Indian board’s hard line stance that Harbhajan be cleared of racism – has been temporarily papered over by the ICC accepting the BCCI’s appeal, which allows Harbhajan to play until the appeal is heard. In all likelihood the appeal won’t take place before Perth, allowing for the tour to continue. But the BCCI has urged that the appeals commissioner expedite the process and sooner or later the issue will come up again. Procter, the match referee, said he had good grounds to ban Harbhajan. Will the ICC back their man, or buckle under the BCCI’s threat to call off the tour? If the verdict be overturned, it will be yet another example of how much clout Mumbai holds over Dubai.

India may have been the victims in Australia, but their attempts to right all the wrongs sets dangerous precedents.

How has the situation been handled by the media? In Australia, the response has been divided with the majority opinion being that Australia handled themselves poorly in Sydney.

In India, there has been a unanimous and primal cry for justice against the real and perceived wrongs that India have been subjected to. “India c Benson b Bucknor” read one paper after the fifth day, “India win the Sydney Test” screamed another after Bucknor was removed and Harbhajan cleared to play pending the appeal. And when the tour appeared to be in no more danger after the ICC’s peace-keeping moves, the TV channels, in perverse disappointment at the lack of fresh juice to whet the jingoistic appetite, decided to ask the junta whether the Sydney Test should be annulled. On what grounds may I ask? Because of bad umpiring, because Australia decided to street fight?

They seem to have forgotten that it was Bucknor who adjudged Sreesanth not out, when he was absolutely plumb lbw at Lord’s in 2007, and allowed India to escape with a last-wicket draw. And during that greatest of Indian Test victories, Kolkata 2001, there was enough doubt to suggest that No 11 Glenn McGrath was not lbw during the final moments of the fifth day.

Australia are due to visit India in October this year. In the preview to that series, the channels will once again flash images of Symonds and Harbhajan, of Clarke claiming a disputed catch off Ganguly, of Kumble saying that only one team played in the right spirit. They will bill the series “Time for Revenge” or “India’s fight for redemption”. Public emotions will be stirred, the crowds will be hostile. Prepare for more controversy and the odd monkey chant.

The Indian players drew sympathy from all corners for the events at Sydney; they will lose a lot of it by imposing their demands on the ICC just because they have the biggest biceps in cricket.

Here's to you Mrs Blyton

2007-10-15T10:52:00.000+05:30

I set out to buy a birthday present for my 11-year old cousin on Friday. The range of options for kids gifts today are mind-boggling – video games, high-tech toys and all sorts mindless rubbish – and so I copped out and decided to buy him a book. I remembered how I’d postpone the torture of homework for a few hours by diving into a world conjured by Enid Blyton and emerge feeling significantly lighter.

Now there was another problem. I had an extensive children’s book collection and my sister informed me that nearly the whole of that had been passed on to this cousin and his father kept adding to it. It was unlikely that he could have read all of them already but I didn’t want to buy something that he had.

As I walked down Church Street and MG Road, I began to eliminate options. No Roald Dhal - he has the entire collection. Adrian Mole? My aunt would have a lot to say about buying adolescent humour for an 11-year old. I didn’t want to buy any of the umpteen new children’s authors either so Enid Blyton it had to be.

No Famous Fives, Secret Sevens or Five Find-Outers. As endearing as Timothy, Scamper and Buster were; the books were far too common and even if he hadn’t read the whole series, it was likely he’d have read some of the books I picked out.

What about school stories? I remember when my older cousins gave me The Naughtiest Girl in School. A girly book? With a lime green cover? A few hours later I quite fancied Elizabeth Allen and sympathised with her when she was in coventry. That book opened up the worlds of Malory Towers, St Clare’s and introduced me to lacrosse. They made me yearn for the boarding-school life with the smart uniforms and tuck boxes.

But I having read all of them ruled out the option of buying them. My cousin probably has them on his shelf and is thinking – girly book? You’ve got to be kidding me.

Mr Pink Whistle was an option – the cheerful brownie who could turn into an invisible for force of justice. I was tempted to buy a wonderfully-illustrated version of the Faraway Tree series. The adventures of Jo, Bessie and Fanny along with the folk of that magical tree – Silky, Dame Washalot, Moonface and his slippery slip, the Angry Pixie, Mr Whathisname and the Saucepan Man – are the most memorable fantasies I’ve delved into. I couldn’t buy it for him but perhaps I could get it for myself.

Finally I zeroed in on the perfect buy. It wasn’t a famous Enid Blyton series; there were just two books in fact. I didn’t own them – I had borrowed them from Browser’s Nook – so he wouldn’t have them. And I remembered that during extensive discussions with like-minded readers, very few had read stories about the Wishing Chair.

So I strode purposefully to Blossoms and hunted for the two books – The Wishing Chair and The Wishing Chair Again. Twenty minutes yielded no results and I turned to the assistants for assistance. She moved away a stack of dusty books, and then rummaged behind a few shelves and then pulled out a not-so-old but dog-eared copy of the Wishing Chair Again. Blossoms sold second-hand books and this was rather second hand. They neither had another copy nor the other book so I asked where I could find them. Gangarams, she said.

The people at Gangarams answered my question with blank looks. The Wishing Chair? Not heard of it. Then someone comes up to me and says that it’s gone out of print. Out of print. It perhaps shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise but the search for something which gave me a few hours of childhood joy had got me excited. I left the shop wondering whether, in due time, other of my favourite childhood stories would exist only in my distorted memory and in tattered, yellowing volumes on bookshelves at home, inaccessible to the children of the present age.

I decided to put off buying the book and headed to the Tavern with the song There are places I remember, all my life … playing in perfect tune in my head.

Then and now

2007-10-03T23:08:00.000+05:30

Delhi wins every time when I compare it to Mumbai and Bangalore.

The Mississippi Mudpie at Big Chill is as good as I remember it. So is the mutton at Andhra Bhavan. I half expected the man at the counter to recognise my face, he didn’t.

My appetite, however, isn’t as good as it used to be. And I didn’t visit the Jama Masjid either. Gastronomical sacrilege.

ISBT isn’t the most dangerous junction in the world to cross anymore. They’ve built an overhead foot-bridge. And it doesn’t smell like a urinal either.

The journey from North Campus to Gurgaon which used to take two hours will be cut down to about 30 minutes once the metro line opens up. The metro in Delhi is better than London me thinks.

The UPSC boundary wall on Shah Jehan road has some ten boards saying 'Union Public Service Commision'. I used to find it funny then, I still do.

The corner house on Prithvi Raj road has the most vicious fence I have ever seen. It’s a line of three foot green metal spikes that point outwards. Vampires beware.

The Feroshah Kotla looks as unfinished as it did when I decided not to go for the India-Pakistan ODI held there in 2004.

The haunted-looking house on Tilak Marg still looks haunted after two years. I’ve passed by it countless times and haven’t seen a soul.

I had massive beginners luck at my first poker game. Or maybe I’m just decent at it. I made 230 bucks either way.

College was closed for the October break when I visited. Our rooms look the same but feel very different. I searched for Mohan and Bhaiyyan but found Akshat instead!

Kamala Nagar wasn’t as crowded as I remember it. The two shops that sold all sorts of things as soon as you took a left into K-nags are gone. So is the Benneton.

The Mother Dairy man is still grouchy.

Nostalgia is over-rated. People remember the same incident in a different ways, may not recall it at all, or may not care for it. But once in a while, it makes you smile.

Twenty20 glory

2007-09-27T01:07:00.000+05:30

This county doesn't do anything in half measures. So India won the Twenty20 World Championship (not the WORLD CUP). And it was an immense achievement considering that hardly anyone gave them a chance. If you say you thought they'd win at the start of the tournament, you're lying. I'm the most optimistic and ardent of Indian fans and I booked travel tickets on the days of the semi-final and final thinking that we wouldn't be in it.

But we won and it was fabulous. So fabulous that thousands of fans thronged the streets of Mumbai a day after Visarjan to catch a glimpse of their heroes atop an open top double-decker bus. The scenes were the stuff of legend. Yuvraj and Bhajji doing the bhangra, Sreesanth kicking in T20 style and even the shy Yusuf Pathan breaking into song and dance. They had landed in Mubai at 8.30am and the bus ride was supposed to reach the Wankhede at 10.30am for the felicitation. Due to the crowds, the bus reached at around 1.30pm. It had all been good until then.

During the felicitation ceremony, arbit officials and Maharashtra politicians hogged the limelight, sitting on the front row of the stage while the cricketers where shunned at the back. Every joker wanted his moment of importance, giving the cricketer his cheque, his bouquet, his plaque or his shawl. The ceremony could have been short and classy instead it was long and crass. Lakhs of ruppes were doled out.

The media made a huge issue of the cricketers being made to sit in the back row.

They made an issue about the Gujarat government not giving the Pathan brothers any rewardwhile the other state governments had announced cash rewards.

While the players were due to make a victory lap on the field, the crowd broke loose and mobbed the Wankhede. The outfield and pitch were trampled upon as the junta behaved like hooligans in the name of celebration. A match against Australia has to be played on the ground in 15 days time, lets hope the ground is in OK shape. Riot police had to be called in to disperse the mob.

TV channels interviewed people who were complaining that the politicians were overshadowing the cricketeres during their hour of glory. Those same people didnt realise they had no business invading the ground. Idiots.

The Indian hockey players announced that they woul go on a hunger strike because of the step-motherly treatment meted out to them. They were protesting against the SOPS given by the govt to the cricketers. What are they asking for? To be remunerated as much as the cricketers? Or for the cricketeres not to be remunerated? I agree that the central govt neednt dole out money to the cricketers but what the BCCI does isnt the hockey players' business and a hunger strike is a ridiculous way of making a statement.

There is no middle ground in India. We get knocked out in the first round of the World Cup and Dhoni's house gets broken down in Ranchi. He leads us to Twenty20 victory and he's hailed as a messiah come to deliver Indian cricket from weary legs and cluttered minds. Rest assured, the failures will come and, with it, more abuse.

Cricket has long since been a marketing man's dream in India. Two phrases emphasise that. "Team India" and "Chak de India". They make me want to retch and curse. We are a country of idiots. The 'fans' at least.

Thank you for the network

2007-09-25T21:43:00.000+05:30

22nd September. The holiday begins. I watch the first two hours of the first semi-final between New Zealand and Pakistan and then head to Madiwala, knowing I'll miss the India-Australia game. I have a feeling we'll lose anyway. My work is run by the cricket, I didn't want my holidays to go the same route. So off I went. Once I reach Madiwala, the travel agent tells me that I have to go to Kalashipalayam to catch the Volvo. The bus decided not to come to Madiwala because it's engine was in an uproar. It's lucky that I was paranoid about the traffic and left home early, I still had time to scrap my way to Kalashiwhassit?

I urge the auto driver to burn his tyres but try to stay alive in the process. Somehow we make it with ten minutes to departure time. I make my way to teh bus office and find out that the blasted bus has been cancelled. Rs 520 for an AC Volvo sleeper bullshit and it's been cancelled. He takes me to another travel agent and gets me a seat on another bus. It better be as good, I tell myself. Right all this running around has got me needing to pee. None of these offices has a loo. I wander around and find a sulbah toilet complex. I go up to a guy sitting at a desk and ask "How much?" He replies "what?". I ask again "How much?" He said "What do you want to do? No 1 or No 2?". I burst out laughing and stick out my little finger. I suppose it costs more to take a dump. But what if you want to pee in the toilet ... or worse dump in the urinal? How would anyone stop you?

Anyway, it's time to board the bus and by this time I know India are batting. I feel that I should have booked tickets for the next day, that my bus getting cancelled was a sign. But screw all that, I'm going. I send smses to Dipak and Jamie asking for updates. As I settle down in my seat, another guy walks up and says 25 is my seat too. Crap. We get that sorted, he sits down in 24.

Foot rest up, back rest back, hide and seek packet open, water bottle at hand, blanket in place and cell phone firmly clutched in my hand ... on silent to conserve battery for I'll need enough to call my unlce in case I get lost in Kozhikode at 5am.

And so the 2*2 cm illuminated screen begins to enjoy the most attention it will ever get.

Dipak: Sure, India 19-0, 4 overs. Sehwag using a runner.

That's not a good start but we haven't lost any wickets. Why the runner though? Who's running? Rohit?

Dipak: Yeah Rohit, Sehwag strained hamstring in the first over. Just got out caught behind, 30-1 off 5.2.

Shit, that's a big loss. Sehwag needed to give us the acceleration. How's the pitch playing? As much on ofer for the bowlers as against SA?

Dipak: Better batting track, ball coming on better, no swing or seam. Excellent bowling, bodyline, no room. 39-1 off seven overs.

Shite, we're sinking. Atleast I'm on a holiday I think to myself, good I decided not to stay back.

Dipak: 41-2 off 8 overs. Gambhir caught brilliantly by Hodge at deep midwicket.

Who got the wickets?

Dipak: Johnson got both wickets. They are unable to hit. Yuvi hit a six right up. 48-2 off nine. Uthappa blocking.

Damn, we're still behind the run-rate. Yuvraj has to come good or that's it.

Dipak: 60 for 2 off ten overs. Another six by Yuvi.

That's 12 runs of that over, we're finally up to six at over. Come on.

Dipak: Third six by Yuvi off Lee. Biggest of the tournament! 119 meters. One six by Robin, one more by Yuvi of Symonds! 79 for 2 after 11.

Jamie: 78 for 2 after 11. Yuvi 27 from ten. 119 meter shot of Lee.

Superb, we're picking up finally. Who's Australia's fifth bowler? Are they playing the chinaman Hogg or the extra batsman in Haddin?

Dipak: Haddin. Four by Yuvi, 88 for 2 off 12.

Dipak: 92-2 of 13.

Yuvi needs to keep going. MSD waiting to come.

Dipak: Everything about him is brilliant. 55 not out, India 113-2 off 14.

Jamie: 20-ball 51.

Jamie: Uthappa going mad too, thumping Mitchell for backtoback sixes. 102 meters!

Jamie: Symonds knocked down the stumps to get Robin for 34. 125 for 3 in 14.3.

That's not so bad. We need Dhoni to bat the remaining overs. Surely Dhoni has come in and not Rohit.

Dipak: Obv. 128-3 after 15.

Dipak: Symonds getting mothered. Two fours by Dhoni, one by Yuvi. 141 for 3 off 16.

Dipak: Yuvi caught at midwicket off Michael Clarke. 155 for 4 off 17.3. Yuvi 70 off 30.

Incredible.

Dipak: 161-4 of 18.

Has Pathan come in?

Dipak: No that choot Rohit Sharma is playing dot balls. Six and four by Dhoni off Bracken. 179-4 off 19. Six by RS now. Great score man this is.

Dipak: Last over - 2 2 0 so far. 183-4 in 19.3 overs.

Dipak: 184-5 in 19.5.

Dipak: Four leg byes last ball. 188 for 5 of 20 overs. Brilliant score. The game is ours. Get the bloody openers.

Indeed.

Jamie: 188 for 5.

Sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach. How could I miss this game, I'd be screaming racist abuses at the Aussies if I were in the office at the moment. No time to worry now, that's the beauty of Twenty20, the second innings gets underway in ten minutes.

Dipak: Good over by RP but for one on the pads. 5-0 off one over.

The key will be Joginder. The Australians will target him.

Dipak: He sucks. Looks terrible, bowls terrible, can't field. Bad full toss by Sree, else good over. 10-0 off two overs.

That asking rate will skyrocket with another few overs like this.

Dipak: They were 19 off 4 now 35-1. Gilly bowled by Sree. RP went for 16 in previous over.

Dipak: 37 for 1 of six overs. Fundoo over by Sree.

Who's come in at one-drop? Hodge or Symonds?

Dipak: Hodge. Eating up deliveries. Good start by Pathan. Is Sree's nickname mental? Where the hell are you? Why aren;t you watching? 40 for 1 off 40 balls.

Bit late in the day for that question. I am on a bus on my way to Kozhikode.

Dipak: You should have flown or something. Big mistake mising this match. Any logic in having the finals on monday evening? 51-1 off 7.3. Jogi gave four second ball.

That sinking feeling again.

Dipak: Biggest six of the tournament by Hayden but meter says just 110. They lose track once it goes out of the stadium. 64-1 off eight overs. Two sixes of Jogi.

Yeah that's a gimmicky measurement, the six meter. Just to excite the watchers.

Dipak: Terrible ball by Pathan down leg isde but pulled straight to short fine leg by Hodge. 68-2 off 8.4.

Is Sehwag on the field after his injury?

Dipak: Viru not on the field. 77 for 2 off ten overs. Bajji now. Just finished a good over.

Dipak: Six by Sym and Hayden off Pathan. 6 for 2 off 11 overs.

Shit, they are up to speed and they could run us down.

Dipak: 89 to win off 48.

Dipak: Shameless Sehwag coming on to bowl without having fielded all this while. Three singles and a six. Fifty for Hayden. No ball by Viru, one more six. 69 req off 42 balls.

Fucking kidding me. Twenty off that over? It's ruined the equation.

Dipak: Yeah 20 off him. Six off Bhaj first ball then good over. 60 off 36.

With eight wickets in hand and two bulls at the crease that's a breeze.

Dipak: Hayden bowled by Sree. 62 off 37 he scored. They need 55 off 32.

Dipak: Sree 4-0-12-2. 54 off 5 reqd. Jogi back.

Who would have thought Mental would bowl like that. Awesome. But Jogi now? Ouch.

Dipak: 41 off 24.

Who's got overs left?

Dipak: One bajji, one RP, one Jogi after this. Symonds bowled by Pathan for 43 off 26. 33 needed off 20 balls.

Dipak: Michael Clarke yorked by Bajji 30 reqd of 17. Hadin in, Hussey still there.

Dipak: W 1 0 0 1 1 by Bhajji. 27 off 12. Jogi now.

That HAS got to be the game! But Jogi's left. One more over.

Jamie: 161 for 5. 28 0ff 12.

Dipak: 0 0 1nb-beamer so far by RP, last over god knows who.

So it isn't Jogi. Damn smart captaincy. Keep your weakest bowler till the end and hope your best bowlers give him plenty of runs to work with.

Dipak: 22 req off six balls. Haddin and Hussey in. It's going to be Jogi.

Dipak: Starts off with a dot ball to Hussey.

Dipak: One more dot ball!

That's it. They need 22 off four balls. Everything has got to go to the boundary!

Dipak: Match over! Hussey out third ball. India and Pakistan final!

Dipak: Twenty to win off two.

Who would have thought? India and Pakistan, the two first-round disasters of the World Cup!

Dipak: Yeah man, who would have thought? Lee bowled by Jogi. 20 of one. Brilliant captaincy from Dhoni as well.

Dipak: India win by 15 runs.

Hell yeah!

Jamie: Jogi takes two wickets and gives six runs in the final over. Boss he'll become CM of Haryana.

I breathe a content sigh and realise that I've been watching my cell phone with rapt attention while the man sitting next to me has not missed a snore except for when the bus hit a pothole.

September 24 - India v Pakistan in the final at 5.30 pm. And at the precise time I'll be boarding a train so that I can spend the first birthday in six years with my family. Four hours and many more smses later (thank you for the patience Dipak), the train breaks out into celebrations and random high fives with people I'll never meet again. I stay awake exchanging smses on how I should jump in a well, hang myself, missed a match of a lifetime etc etc. The clock ticks over to 12am. Happy Birthday George. And good night.

There and back again

2007-08-30T15:04:00.000+05:30

I didn’t do too much touristy stuff in London. I don’t particularly like being a tourist. I stayed four years in Delhi and have never been inside the Red Fort.

On my first day off from the office, I went to the Natural History Museum. It’s an awe-inspiring building, vast and gothic. And once you step inside there is something new to learn about varied subjects – biology, history, geology, geography, evolution - with every step you take. My plan was to spend a couple of hours there, and then hop across to the science and art museums which were located on the same street. Plans change, I spent around five hours in the history museum and I might have absorbed about 1/100^th of the information on offer. Every kid who likes nature must visit.

The decision to go to the museum was forced by the weather in the morning, grey and gloomy, but when I left was a warm sunny evening. So I decided to ditch the other museums and hop on the tube towards the Tower of Londo n and the bridge. It was shut by the time I got there but I walked around the area quite a bit. The walkway by the Thames is such an exciting place. There are street plays, stalls, people drinking on the lawns, break dancers, and couples everywhere, which made the solitary tourist feel just a little nostalgic and lonely.

***

London shuts by 6pm, the touristy areas at least. So there’s not much else to do but shop, which I try to put off until I can’t procrastinate any further, or go out for a beer, which I’m always in a mood for provided the company is good. You can go to a pub, bar or club for a beer, or just buy it off the shelf and drink it in a park. I couldn’t help but wonder whether it would be mayhem in India if they allowed drinking in public.

A pub is your laid back kind of place with old and classy décor where they serve only alcohol and snacks. A bar is more upmarket, and you can get a proper dinner there, I was told. A club, although enticing, was definitely beyond my means. The bartender at one of the first pubs I went to was a likeable chap. He saw me staring wide-eyed at the different varieties of beer (in India the buck stops with Kingfisher) and offered me small glasses of several kinds. White beer – made from wheat I think, Italy’s Peroni, Guinness, ales, stout, cider … I usually find something I like and can’t get enough of it (like the Mississippi mudpie) but here I made it a point to sample whatever I could. I enjoyed my first Corona immensely and even stashed the sleek bottle in my bag to bring back as a souvenir.

Guinness, though, became my favourite drink. It’s thick, creamy, tastes smooth and but it’s so damn heavy. I could manage two glasses at the most, and I felt like I’d eaten a massive meal. Travis said that I should go to Camden to try “Banana beer” which apparently doesn’t contain a trace of banana but tastes freakishly like the fruit. I never got down to making the trip to Camden though.

***

I went to a Queens Park Rangers game – the football team Travis supports. It was a wet, windy and cold evening and cricket would never have survived the conditions. The stadium, which holds around 10,000 spectators, was perhaps 1/3 full but the fans made more noise than a jam-packed cricket stadium in England. QPR lost 2-1 to Lorient, it was an average game of football but I loved it.

***

I’d gone to The Oval Test match between England and India as well, as a fan not as a journalist. I sat in the stands at point, watched India do impressively on the first day, drank a couple of pints, got offered superb food by the massive bunch of England fans next to me, cheered whenever India did well, attracted curious stares because I was wearing a West Indies hat, compared cameras with a photographer, and ate a really shitty chicken tikka wrap because I suddenly missed Indian spice. The experience was very different from the matches I’ve been to in India. The atmosphere in an Indian stadium is incomparable and you could never imagine grounds in England make that kind of primal noise, but when it comes to facilities for the spectators, we’re miles behind. One section of the crowd at the Oval were a few beers down and perhaps frustrated with England not doing well. They tried to start the Mexican wave but once the wave got to a more sober section of the crowd, it would die out. Eventually, after an hour’s perseverance and plenty of failed efforts, they managed to get the wave rippling around the whole stadium. Section after section threw their hands in the air and yelled, sometimes throwing objects into the air. However, the moment the wave reached the pavilion, it was quickly snuffed out. There was no way those suits were going to stoop to such frivolity. Repeatedly the wave died in the Pavilion, and each time the crowd soundly booed them.

***

I couldn’t go to England and not go to Lord’s and so the office sent me to the Friends Provident final between Hampshire and Durham. From the moment I set foot in St Johns Wood, I just took in whatever I could. The view from the spaceship-shaped press box was superb and their lunch and tea were perhaps the best meals I had in London. The outside of the ground was buzzing with activity with people thronging the food stalls, bars and the betting stalls. I went to the Lord’s souvenir shop and picked up a wall hanging which says,

Cricket as explained to a foreign visitor

“You have two sides, one out in the field and one in. Each man that’s in the side that’s in goes out and when he’s out he comes in and the next man goes in until he’s out. When they are all out, the side that is out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those coming in out. Sometimes you get men still in and not out. When both sides have been in and out including the not outs. That’s the end of the game.”

***

Fatma was in Cambridge and it’d been too long since I last met her. So I went to Kings Cross, saw platform 9 and ¾, and caught the train. The round trip cost 18 pounds and no body even came to check if I had a ticket. The countryside was pretty but the train sped past too quickly for me to enjoy the ride. Cambridge was straight out of a picture postcard. Old architecture, cobbled roads, green lawns everywhere. And for some stiff reason you weren’t allowed to walk on those manicured laws. Fatma was an excellent guide and by the end of the day she said we had covered almost the whole of Cambridge. She took me through Trinity College, Kings, St Johns and many more. She told me that Byron was in Trinity and was expelled because he brought a bear back into his room. I asked if it was tranquilized, she said no. Lunch was at an Algerian joint and dessert was heavy Nutella crepes. I briefly contemplated getting boxer shorts with the London tube map printed on them but contemplation didn’t evolve into action. I could see why people come here, study, study more and then perhaps teach here. It was peaceful. I bought some toffee at the post office, mostly because the box was quaint. The toffee inside is a tooth-breaker, I’ve been putting off going to the dentist already and I’m scared to try the stuff. Although we spent several hours walking and seeking shelter from the rain, I went back to London refreshed.

***

The best thing about being back in India is that you can use water, and not paper, to wipe your arse.

If you've bothered to read the unearthly-hour ramblings until here, http://www.flickr.com/photos/11615190@N04/ is where the photos are.

Spitalfield

2007-08-06T00:32:00.000+05:30

Today was as laid back as they come. I woke up around 10.00 am but it was a good two hours before everyone else got up and, by the time hunger forced us out of the house, it was around 2.00 pm. The plan was to head to Spitalfield – a flea market of sorts.

So far London seems a very relaxed and chilled out city. There are people walking, cycling and nobody’s in a rush but I suppose that’s because it’s the weekend. There’s so much space and relatively few people so it seems like there’s a lot of room on the streets. The pubs and restaurants have blended into the old architecture, giving everything a quaint look.

We took the tube from Queensway to Liverpool Street. I don’t like the tube much because it’s terribly stuffy. The trains aren’t air-conditioned like the metro is in Delhi and it can get quite hot when it’s crowded. Not particularly looking forward to taking it to work everyday.

Spitalfield market has lots of stalls selling all sorts of stuff like furniture, clothes, Chinese medicines and different varieties of cheese. We walked around searching for a good place to eat and then came upon this stall selling all sorts of baked stuff for one pound apiece. We soon had our arms full of brown paper bags filled with slices of pizza, chocolate cake, Belgian mousse and olives. Lunch shopping was complete with a few cans of Belgian beer - Stella Artois - which tastes a lot like Kingfisher. It’s a good thing I decided to ignore calorie intake during this trip.

We sat down next to a fountain and tucked in – sipping beer, eating pizza and olives stuffed with chilles with people around us doing the same on a lovely warm summer day. It’s been a relaxed holiday so far and work begins tomorrow.

I didn't want to look like too much of a tourist but I'll get rid of that silly notion and take better photos in the next few days.

Spitalfield market.

The stall from where we bought lunch.

The olive shop.

Heathrow and Paddington

2007-08-05T15:25:00.000+05:30

The BA 118 was scheduled to leave Bangalore at 6.45 am. And thankfully it did. I got to the airport at 3.30 am, early as usual. I had one suitcase, a piece of hand baggage and my sleeping bag. I was told that I could check in only one piece of baggage so I had to flatten out my sleeping bag and cram in into what had been a carefully-packed suitcase.

Baggage check-in and security took about an hour and by 4.45 am; I couldn’t help but wonder why one has to report at least two and a half hours ahead of departure for international flights. The time was spent drinking hot chocolate and reading Sherlock Holmes and it passed rather quickly.

I kept checking the flight route on the LCD display and gazing out of my window at the landscape below when the sky wasn’t cloudy. We flew from Bangalore, over Goa, the Arabian Sea, over the Middle East peninsula, Turkey, the Black Sea, Germany, Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and over the English Channel into London. We didn’t fly in a straight line from Bangalore or we might have flown over Greece and the Mediterranean.

I had a bird’s eye view of the city when the plane circled once before landing and I spotted Wembley, the London Eye and the London Bridge. The first thing that struck me was how much farther you could see. The lack of pollution meant that you could see much farther.

Heathrow was a breeze. A polite and plump Punjabi lady asked me “Why are you here lad?” “Is this your first time?” and immigration was over with in a jiffy. There were people from so many different nationalities at the airport and I would soon discover that it was quite similar outside as well.

Armed with a printout from streetmap.co.uk and a list of instructions I set off for the train terminal. There are two trains from Heathrow to Paddington – the Heathrow Express which costs 17 pounds, and the Heathrow Connect, which is 7 pounds but takes 10 minutes longer.

There was a man on the train, carrying a guitar type case, except that the instrument inside must have been 10-12 feet long at least. I asked him what it was and got a reply in German. When the train stopped at Southall, I noticed that all the signs were written in English and Punjabi. At another station this bald, fit, topless, tattooed man walked into the train wearing just shorts, shoes and a thick gold chain. Summer, no doubt, had finally arrived in England.

So when I stepped out at Paddington Station, I took in my first smell of the city and it was the overpowering stench of gasoline. It got better once I left the platform though. After a monsoonal few months, the weather’s finally turned for the better and today was lovely. The sky was as blue as one could have hoped for and there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in sight. The temperature was a pleasant 23-24 degrees and the walk to Anant’s house from the station was pleasant. There were hardly any people or cars on the road, well compared to home at least. I saw quite a few cyclists and one mad roller-blader.

After settling in, we went out at around 5.00 pm and had an English breakfast at Art Café; a restaurant on Queensway where you can sit on tables on the pavement and eat. Lunch on the flight was miserable so I was glad to see my plate full with bacon, sausages, baked beans, eggs and mushrooms and a Chocolate milkshake to wash it down. The good thing being a pedestrian here is that if you step out on to a zebra crossing, the cars will stop. But if you aren’t on one, they certainly won’t. I sorted out a phone connection and a travel card for Monday when I have to start work and then headed back home. There were plans of going to a pub in the night (the sun sets at 9.00 pm) but I knew I wouldn’t last long with the jet lag kicking in.

Saturday morning 3am

2007-08-04T01:15:00.000+05:30

Four reasons for my absence from blogspace. The Indian tour of England has kept us really busy in office. Hours of work were usually from around 4-5pm until the wee hours of the morning. Then there was Harry Potter and after that a new camera, which I still haven't got the hang of, despite fiddling around with it for hours. And then the twitch. An annoying twitch under my right eye which, according to Google, was due to spending far too many hours in front of the computer. That twitch has disappeared now.

And I've been running around getting things sorted for my London trip. The flight is at 6.45 am and I've got to be at the airport in a couple of hours. The excitement hasn't kicked in yet though which is strange. I'm hoping it does sooner rather than later.

How much do you press?

2007-07-13T22:36:00.000+05:30

My three-month affair with Aerobics has ended. Her timings and mine weren’t compatible. She’d entertain me only at certain hours; either really early in the morning or during prime-time in the evenings. And when I went, she made me move to music like ‘Who let the dogs out’, ‘It’s the time to disco’, and ‘Sccchumacher’. Rather demanding I thought. So I ended it, without a phone call or saying goodbye.

I looked up a few alternatives. The Swimming Pools were of two extremes; the first lived in ideally-located hotels and promised exclusivity but were of extremely high maintenance; the other wanted me to travel to distant places and had too many visitors.

So I had to settle for what I had shunned all these months. The Gym - ideally located, spacious, flexible with timings but an awful bore. I got a good deal - Rs 5000 for six months.

I went for the first time today. They took my measurements, which only a few people are privy to.

If you don’t have company and aren’t fanatically driven, it can be mind numbing. Staring at white and blue drapes while using the treadmill for 40 minutes (Ipod could help), cycling without actually going anywhere (Ipod could help), rowing without being able to drag your hand in the water (Ipod could help, birthday’s in a few months). With company however, it isn’t so bad. You can always compete.

It takes about ten seconds of walking to burn one calorie, five seconds of cycling and about the same for rowing. So after an hour of doing cardio stuff, I had burned 300 calories. Two bottles of beer or a couple of ice creams will replenish that. Time to watch the diet.

Wash behind your ears

2007-07-12T22:24:00.000+05:30

I’ve always liked my cosmetics. I don’t know where I get it from because neither Amma nor Appa use more than the basic stuff. My sister freaks out on the creams and the whatnot though. Perhaps I too use just the bare necessities. Would soap (liquid and bar), toothpaste and brush, razor and shaving foam, aftershave, mouthwash, facewash, hair gel, moisturiser, sunscreen, lip balm, oil, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and perfume, a loofah and a foot scrubber be considered excessive?

In college, I used to sleep with cream made out of tea tree and mud (the marketing people deserve applause for conning me into that one) on my face. I was pretty damn paranoid about not being seen with it on. So the ritual was; bath, lights out and then the cream after which I didn’t open the door for anyone. I never used it in first year because Tommy was my room-mate and there was always someone or the other in M4 but the privacy of second and third-year rooms was put to good use. There’s photographic evidence, a snap with Jakka with a shower cap on (fully clothed mind you) and me with my face pack. I guard it well.

On one of my first visits to Health and Glow in Madras, I arbitrarily bumped into some juniors from school. In hindsight, my fumbling for some excuse that I was in the shop to pick up something for my sister was so juvenile. I still patronize Health and Glow, and if you like cosmetics, you should too.

Which brings me to tonight. Boredom can make you do the strangest things. I was feeling super restless which made me want to smoke outside of drinking. Not the best direction to head towards if you want to quit smoking while drinking. So I got busy. Rosa had mentioned that using egg white in your hair stops it from falling out. Well mine doesn’t fall out but there are a couple of white strands who’ve emerged thinking it is the year 2020.

So here I am, egg white in my hair, waiting for the water to heat for a long and luxurious bath with the whole range of cosmetics waiting to be used ... Beer is good for the hair too but that's a criminal waste.

Rambling 1.0

2007-06-30T14:55:00.000+05:30

A strange thing happened today. I overslept. I never oversleep, unless I have the day off of course. So when I woke up at 7.45am for my 8 am shift, I checked my clock to make sure my phone wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t.

The 8am shift is crucial. It’s the first shift after the chaps in London have signed off for the night around midnight IST. Lots can happen between then and now and we’ve got to get fresh stuff up before our Indian users reach their offices. So I immediately think “I’m going to have to wing it.” And I hate rushing in the morning. I like to wake up a good hour before I have to leave; make coffee, eat breakfast in peace, and have a satisfying shower and then head out.

Then I remembered that internet connection my office gave our flat in case of emergencies. So I decide to work from home for the day and it was all good again.

***

The street where my office was located in Bombay had three multiplexes. Watching a movie was never a problem. If no tickets were available at one, I’d stroll to the next and on the rare chance that the second was also full, the third would never disappoint.

Bangalore has only two easily accessible multiplexes. Both of them are in malls. I dislike malls with a passion. They’re filled with mall rats. You can see them as you drive up, sitting on the benches and pavements outside the mall, doing nothing. They’re inside too, participating in some rubbish marketing gimmick to win “free” stuff. And if they have 100-150 bucks to spare, they’ll end up taking your spot at a movie. That sounds unreasonable I know, but it’s pretty damn frustrating. I’ve been to a 3pm show on a Thursday – sold out, and recently my flat-mate went for a 10.20 am show (don’t ask why) and that too was bizarrely sold out.

There are far too many people in the city, every city. I’m thinking I’d like to live in a secluded coastal town.

The three Bs

2007-06-22T23:19:00.000+05:30

It’s just another normal day at work. A chat window pops up, one more added to the several that are already open.

Senior editor: Do you have a valid passport?
George: Yes
Senior editor: The exchange programme might work out, but mum’s the word for now.

And all of a sudden, I’m going to London.

Our office does this exchange programme where one person from India goes to the London office and one person from London comes here. So for two weeks in the beginning of August (awfully sorry Yohan, I’ll sort something out) I’ll be in London.

I’m pretty damn excited because a) I’ve never been out of the country b) India’s playing in England at the time c) I’m a bit of an Anglophile.

There’s a lot to do before the trip of course. I dislike paperwork and the visa process is already throwing up a few googlies. Apparently I need income tax documents which I uncharacteristically don’t have. I’m also wondering whether I should take time off after the two weeks and travel around a bit. So if anyone knows anyone who I can pile on to in European countries, please shout. I also need to buy a camera. My early twenties are flying by without photographic record.

Anyway, I hope it all gets sorted. I’m seriously looking forward to indulging in the three Bs – beer, beef and the Beatles.

Foot firmly in mouth

2007-06-17T15:39:00.000+05:30

Being a cricket organisation, we play precious little cricket. We have net sessions and the odd tennis-ball match but that’s about it. So when one of us took the initiative to organise a cricket-ball game, the idea was received with a lot of enthusiasm. Cricinfo Red v Cricinfo Blue; not very imaginative names I know but that’s beside the point.

Playing with a cricket ball is very different from the galli-cricket that we’re used to. You can’t be afraid of it, you can’t bat as fearlessly as you do against a tennis ball, and hurling it 22 yards needs stamina and shoulder power.

We have one really good batsman among us who used to play for first-division clubs in Madras. That’s one notch below the Ranji Trophy. He was in the opposite team and about ten days before the match, I started sledging him. Good-natured stuff of course, related to how embarrassed he would feel when I got him out in the game. I went over the top and even spun this little yarn.

I went into the bathroom and while I was taking a leak I heard him, in a cubicle, saying to himself over and over again, ‘I must not get out to George, I must not get out to George’.

So as time passed everyone knew we were having a slanging contest. He never replied to my needling but he did shave his head on the day before the match, ideal ammunition for me to start saying he had gone to a temple before the game!

Anyway, so we batted first and scored 138 in 25 overs. I went in during the 21^st over. Immediately he came on to bowl his leg-spinners. The fielders crowded the bat, mouths sick with verbal diarrhea. He ran in and tossed up the first ball on leg stump. I had intended to defend because there was no way I could risk getting out to him, but I took a step forward and slogged him high and far over midwicket for four. Round one to George.

When they batted, he came to open the innings. I wish this could have ended with me saying that I got him out and celebrated like a mad man. I didn’t. There was little satisfaction in the fact that he didn’t hit me for a single boundary even though he scored 80 off 56 balls and single-handedly won the game for them.

Round two to George but game, set and match to him.

Joincidence?

2007-06-15T09:39:00.000+05:30

When the car fell on the tree and jeopardised my trip to Coorg, Yohan left a comment saying “this is just the latest in a series of flukes and coincidences in your life. It's worth a post at least.” While there have been a few bizarre ones, most others assumed significance because of the circumstances attached to it. And as for a post, I was lazy to do that much thinking.

When I got out of college and decided to work; I wanted be involved with sport. I wasn’t aware of many opportunities but ESPNStar was an attractive prospect. They had an office in Saket in Delhi and I made the trip several times to try and meet anybody. I didn’t know in what capacity I could work there or if they hired freshers at all. I used to think that even if I got the most mundane job there, I could perhaps work my way up to better things.

So the first time I went, the receptionist, who was intimidatingly busy answering at least ten calls a minute with her futuristic headset, said that all the relevant people were attending their annual conference somwhere in South East Asia. The second time, she said I couldn’t meet the concerned chap without an appointment. I asked when he’d be free, she said in two-three hours. So I waited, got wet in the rain, and then when I spoke to him on the phone, he said that they didn’t hire freshers but I could apply for a summer internship if I wanted. That was of no use since it was August already.

So I got a job in Gurgaon. The work wasn’t ideal, the commute was long but I had a great time. One-day I saw an ad on Cricinfo. It said ‘get paid to watch cricket’. I had to apply and I did. I moved to Bombay in July 2005 – a decision I look back on with happiness and regret. It wasn’t ESPN but it was Wisden and I loved going to work every day.

Last week, our editor took us out to lunch and told us that we were being bought – by ESPN.

PS: This happened last evening. Jamie, a friend and colleague, and I were walking on Primrose Road and I said to him "That guy looks like Wolverine". Wolverine was walking towards us on the opposite side of the road. As he crossed, he turned and stared and I thought "Crap, he heard me". Then I heard him say something with Jamie in it. So I said to Jamie with some relief "Wolverine seems to know you". Turns out they had met each other, just once, long ago.

London 2012

2007-06-12T06:44:00.000+05:30

I'm not the most aesthetically inclined when it comes to art so I won't offer much criticism or appreciation apart from "I like" or "I don't like". But there's been a lot of hoopla over the logo for the London games. The firm that designed it were paid £400,000 to do so. Seriously, £400,000. Why does a logo cost so much? It's freakishly ridiculous. And I read somewhere that if you look at it in a certain way, you can see Lisa Simpson.

One, two, three, four ...

2007-06-07T20:52:00.000+05:30

I bought a cycle and used to pedal to work everyday to get my exercise but it soon got hot and cycling became a sweaty experience. Then I played cricket with friends from office but you know how it is when you have to depend on too many people.

Therefore I checked out a gym that had a Valentine day offer going. A ‘couple membership’ was only 6000 bucks per person for a whole year. That’s a steal at Rs 500 a month. Gyms are awfully boring with their weights, on-the-spot running and protinex-filled patrons but this offer was too good to pass up. All I had to find was the other half of the necessary couple. No such luck.

Then I decided to try aerobics. People laughed, and how. Feminine, pansy, spandex shorts, tights and old women were what I heard most often. Anyway, I went to sign up and, when I checked out the class that was in progress, it was all of those things. It was also extremely energetic, fast-paced, required a lot of agility, and tremendous stamina.

There’s a girl there with not an ounce of fat on her. I huff and puff; trying to keep up because I always play hard. Madhu Mohan once challenged me to a race in college. This is like that, but I’m the one in Madhu’s position. I was extremely relieved to overhear that she’s been doing aerobics for about four years. I wasn’t bad for a two-month novice.

I try to avoid the 8pm class because the instructor who takes it kills me each time. He must be in his 40s but he keeps going on and on, lifting his hands and legs higher and faster until it aches just to watch him. After one particularly exhausting work out, I asked him how long he’d been at it. Sixteen years he said. And when he started, he weighed 126 kilos and had a 44-inch waist. He must be about 80 kilos now. It’s the sort of thing you need to hear to keep going.

Biting off more than ...

2007-05-30T19:36:00.000+05:30

I have a lot to say about cricket. But this isn't the place for it. So I've started Caught At Slip. I had doubts about one baby and now I've created two. This joint will remain open of course.

Photos from Kakkabe

2007-05-29T23:16:00.000+05:30

This is what Jungle Mount Adventures looked like, no frills, no make up.

The cottages were basic too. Just five beds and a loo. If you look closely you can see an inflatable kayak in the porch.

The river, a tributary to the Cauvery. I noticed that the currents in the river had different temperatures.

Arbit photo I know but we played dumbcharades in the evening. Here's to Joe and Yohan.

Rappelling at Chellavara (definitely got the spelling wrong) waterfalls.

George of the jungle

2007-05-28T13:23:00.000+05:30

I was born in Kozhikode. A gas cylinder exploded around the time of my arrival, so I was told. The first thing I ever ate was a bit of chocolate. I lived in Madras for my first 18 years and grew up by the beach. Summer holidays were always spent in Thenaruvi (river of honey) which is an estate about two hours from Kozhikode. There we learnt to swim in streams – in underwear not swimming trunks - took several layers of skin off our elbows and knees while trekking and plucked fruit and threw them away if they weren’t perfect. We also ate a lot of meat. I’d have liked to take more of my friends there but only Tawakeley made the trip.

That upbringing has stayed with me. I’m always game for anything outdoorsy (as long as it’s sensible). I love my sports and speed, agility and energy make up for the lack of outstanding talent. A friend used to call me ‘natural’ or ‘ape’ while in school. At work, the name ‘Nandro (lone)’ has stuck.

Since 2001, the year college began, visits to Kerala have grown increasingly few and far between. I’ve spent the last six years in Delhi, Bombay, Chennai and Bangalore with a few short breakaways to Coonoor, Rishikesh, Binsar, Erode and Thenaruvi. Movies, restaurants and beer are the most common forms of entertainment in the city. There’s nothing natural about it apart from the good company.

So when we planned our trip to Coorg (actually Kakkabe), I was excited and curious whether I would still be OK with a leech between my toes and not feel disgusted. We had a few problems organizing the trip (see the post below) but finally pulled through.

We managed to get out of the city by 5am. Fast forward five-six hours (I don’t like car rides much) and we arrived at Jungle Mount Adventures. Sagar, the chap who runs the place, had given us immaculate directions and in this age of satellites and whatnot, a piece of paper sufficed. We didn’t make a single mistake, which was good because I hate getting lost.

The camp was basic. A room with five beds, one bulb, one porch light, two chairs, one bathroom, no desk, no TV, no fan. The weather was pleasant so we didn’t need the fan. The rooms were built on a grassy plain with mountains on one side and a thick growth of trees on the other with a river running through it. The water was muddy with the sediment but not dirty (with pollutants) so I jumped right in.

The river was deep because I took a breath and plunged down as far as my lungs would let me but still didn’t touch the bed. Someone said it was 35 feet, I must have gone down about 15. Then we went on a boat ride (rowed ourselves without a guide telling us that a good rowing technique is based on the work of the legs to create most of the power) for a fair distance, maneuvering out of the way of rocks and tree stumps sticking out of the water.

I was a little skeptical when we first arrived but I began to appreciate what Sagar had done to the place, or rather not done to it.

There was no attempt to artificialise it. There were no flower beds, no manicured lawns and the ground was not even. The grass was not uniform and was patchy in some places. The lighting was minimal, just the bare necessities.

That night we brought some of the city fun to the country; a whole crate of beer, drunk around a camp fire. Well not the whole crate but about two-thirds of it. A spicy pork dinner followed. I could really get used to Coorgi food. They love their meat as much as we do.

We had an early start the next day – to go rappelling - so we turned in by around midnight. An 8am start can seem torturous in Bombay or Bangalore but getting up here was easy because the early morning sun shone bright and sharp on my face.

We got lost on the way to the rappelling point. I didn’t like that much. But I did like the rappelling – 200 feet down a 90 degree cliff face with a small waterfall by the side. I’ve rappelled before but it was so long ago that it doesn’t count. I remembered my bungee jumping experience. It wasn't off a bridge or a cliff towards a river in scenic New Zealand. It was off the top of a crane during a youth festival in Delhi. I had waited for four hours in a queue and those five minutes of free falling were worth every bit of it.

Kakkabe was an excellent, and much needed, break from the city and I was glad to find that my enthusiasm for water, rocks and most things outdoors hadn’t diminished at all. Bangalore welcomed our return with heavy rain and a traffic jam.

A downside to having had a place like Thenaruvi as part of my childhood is that I always compare. I compared this place and, like all the others, it paled when pitted against that happy place filled with family, fruit trees, mountains, streams and animals.

(Photos will follow soon, I hope. No digs at the weight please, I'm working on it.)

When something can go wrong ...

2007-05-24T19:22:00.001+05:30

What’s the most bizarre thing that’s happened to you? What follows might match it.

So a bunch of us had planned a trip to Coorg. To stay at this adventure camp and go kayaking, trekking and rappelling. It’s pretty frustrating work, organizing a trip. We left the bookings too late so finding a place to stay was tough. Then you have to coordinate with everyone, check if prices and amenities were satisfactory. After that there were some people who backed out, and others who had a tough time getting the green signal from their parents.

Anyway, we ploughed through all that and we were all set to leave on Saturday morning. We’d overcome a lot of obstacles and were all pretty excited about getting out of the city for a couple of days.

We decided not to go by bus because who’d want to go by bus when we could go by car? I was looking forward to the drive almost as much as the place itself; cruising down an excellent highway in pleasant weather with music and inane chatter.

And then this happened.

That's the car we were supposed to drive to Coorg in. I've not been superstitious for a long time but stuff like this gets you wondering. Maybe we'll still go, by bus, or maybe we won't. This sucks and blows.

Thankfully no one was hurt.

Rum and porke

2007-05-23T12:11:00.000+05:30

Random events that happen when you least expect it can start you thinking of stuff that you’ve not thought about in a long time. Some of it may be profound but this wasn’t.

After a spicy dinner last night, I looked around for the nearest thirst quencher – a bottle of coke. I took a swig and even though I hadn’t tasted the stuff in over five years, I recognized that sickly-sweet taste of rum immediately. And even after all this time, it made me want to retch and spit, which I ran to the sink and did (spit not retch).

When exactly did I consume the disgusting stuff last? I’m not absolutely sure but I’ve narrowed it down to the time in College when we played corridor cricket and a pair of pants got pulled down. Since then I’ve been asked several times to have some rum, and each time I’ve refused. I used to think it was a mental block but last night’s inadvertent event assured me that I can’t stand the stuff.

I needed that sip of coke last evening after an excellent meal of Coorgi pork and ghee rice. If you come to Bangalore and want to try some pretty good and very reasonably priced Coorgi food, check out Wild Spice on Residency Road – plug over.

And welcome to The Steakhouse. Hopefully business will be good enough to keep it open longer than my last joint.